Alphas Protect
by Dayja
Summary: Everyone in the world starts their lives as betas. It takes meeting one's soulmate to spark the change into alpha or omega. Sherlock is a beta. He expects to live his entire life that way. After all, he doesn't have a soulmate, right? But if he did have a soulmate, he knew he'd turn out to be the alpha. And Sherlock is never wrong. Right?
1. Chapter 1

Story: Alphas Protect  
>Author: Dayja<br>Genre: soulmate and omega verse AU  
>Warnings: Eventual sex. Slight mention of bullying and one mention of assault (possibly sexual, Sherlock isn't sure). Past drug use (this is Sherlock).<br>Note: This story is based off a prompt. For link, try AO3 version since they allow links.

Disclaimer: I do not own, am not associated with, make no money from the TV show _Sherlock_.

**Chapter 1**

If Sherlock had to admit why he had the television on, and set to such an inane show at that, he'd have said it was too much of a bother to go turn it off. This was in fact true, if misleading. Not to mention, it didn't explain why he had turned it on in the first place before throwing himself on his sofa with his laptop, legs half up the wall and head hanging at the cushion's edge.

He was meant to be checking for new cases. He needed cases. Instead, his attention kept being drawn by the sudden outbursts from the telly. If he tried, he could tilt his head enough for an upside down view of an older omega man looking down at some cards. Not that his omega dynamic was obvious through the television, without any way to smell his scent, but Sherlock had made a study in the subtle differences that present between dynamics.

"_Well there you have it; bookworms are actually beetles."_

He most definitely wasn't watching because he liked the show. The audience laughter felt contrived, not to mention occasionally too loud, and the information presented had an unfortunate way of cluttering his mind palace with unwanted trivia. Either it was utterly useless information, or it was incredibly obvious and left him in despair at the ignorance of the masses. Or the information was wrong, which left him annoyed and, on occasion, in trouble with Mycroft. Apparently hacking into a studio to inform them of their idiocy was a crime. In Sherlock's opinion, he was doing them a favor.

"_Now, who can tell me what percent of people will meet their soulmate in their lifetime."_

Of course, if Sherlock had truly needed to justify to someone else why he had the television on, he probably wouldn't have turned it on in the first place. He told himself he preferred the television to the presence of another person. The background noise helped him think.

"_Fifty percent."_

"Wrong."

The sudden blaring of klaxons came a fraction after Sherlock's assessment of the contestant's cautious answer, the number 50% flashing on the screen behind his head. The young alpha grinned good naturedly towards the omega host, the age difference lending a paternal feel to their interactions, rather than sexual, despite their opposite dynamics.

"_I suppose you're going to say there's no such thing as soul mates."_

"_Ooh, right!"_ One of the other guests hopped excitedly in her chair. A beta woman. _"They're…what's the term…something…matches."_

"Telgenos Matches," Sherlock told them impatiently. "But that's nothing to do with the statistics."

"_Telgenos Matches,"_ the host said affably, apparently pleased with their efforts. One of the guests talked semi-coherently on the topic, which for some reason incited laughter from the audience. The young alpha continued to insist it was a fifty-fifty chance of finding your match, soul or telegenic, or otherwise. There was more laughter while the host kindly pointed out his idiocy before having more numbers thrown up on the screen.

"_Here's a hint. Here's a listing of population statistics. These are surprisingly uniform on a global scale. Fifty percent of any given population is beta. Twenty-five percent alpha, and twenty-five percent omega. As betas only change dynamic to alpha or omega after they meet their soulmate, and each soul pair always results in one alpha and one omega, we can conclude that fifty percent of our population, at any given time, has met their soulmate."_

"_So it is fifty percent."_

"Of course not, you moron," Sherlock informed him.

"_Well, no. Because the largest beta population can be found in…?"_

"_Children!"_ the beta woman exclaimed excitedly, beating Sherlock in answering only because Sherlock had chosen to roll his eyes at the way the host had to lead the contestants to the answer instead of shouting the answer himself. Even after she blurted this out, the remaining three guests continued to look ridiculously confused.

"_All children are born betas,"_ the woman explained eagerly, as though this were radical information and not something everyone knew. _"Even if a child happens to meet their soulmate, the change into alpha and omega can't be triggered until after adolescence, and even then it's not until the body is mature enough, usually at around sixteen years. Most people meet their soulmate sometime between twenty and forty years of age."_

"Nineteen to thirty-six" Sherlock corrected her. The host did not bother to, still smiling at the fact that one of his guests wasn't a complete idiot who couldn't work out simple maths.

"_Right, so if eighteen percent of the population in the UK is under the age of fifteen that would mean the remaining population who have met their soulmate is…"_

But what it might mean was not to be revealed, because at that moment the entire room went dark and silent.

"Sixty-one percent," Sherlock muttered to the now darkened box, if only to complete the pending statement before it decided to get stuck in his head and leave him pondering soulmates, of all things, for the rest of the day. The television, thanks to the sudden power outage, was unable to comment. Sherlock found himself continuing anyway.

"But simply taking away the generation who has yet to be able to present still leaves skewed results. One simply has to look at the statistics for over the age of forty; take into account the average number of deaths before the age of forty, and you are left with a not so uniform percentage across the globe, but in the case of the UK, fifty-six percent of the population will manage to meet someone who incites a bond and the transformation from beta to alpha or omega."

Silence.

"Whether the remaining forty-four percent have no compatible mate to trigger the change, have fewer possible compatibles, assuming the compatibles theory is correct and there isn't, indeed, only one possible soulmate per person, or whether the remaining are simply unlucky in finding their compatible has been of great debate. However, the fact that there is such a strict division of dynamics on a global scale, regardless of elderly death rates, or birthrates, suggests that biology demands half the population, at any given moment, be beta."

Silence.

"Moreover, calling the unbonded 'the unlucky fifty' is not only inaccurate from a mathematical stand point, it is demeaning from a personal. I myself am a member of the thirty-nine percent beta population over the age of fifteen, and I fully intend, even prefer, to remain so until I might be counted among the forty-four percent, assuming I reach the age to become such a statistic. Far from being 'unlucky', I enjoy knowing that I am singular."

It wasn't absolute silence. There was the faint hum of his laptop, the distant drip of a faucet, the skittering of bugs in the walls. There were the sounds of people as well; the angry and dismayed shouts and thumps coming through the paper thin walls of the building that suggested Sherlock was not alone in the sudden power outage. Not something Sherlock personally needed to get up to fix then. Just another hazard to endure from living in such a decrepit building.

This, he reminded himself, this was why he needed cases. Cases could take him away from this place, if not literally giving him the means to afford better living quarters, then at least figuratively giving his brain somewhere else to dwell, whatever his transport was faced with. He turned his head once more to his laptop, the only source of light in the room.

No internet. Of course. The unnamed neighbor's connection that he had been using must be out, just like everything else. If he wanted to check his email, he'd have to find his phone. But what was the use of pulling himself up, tramping around in the dark, only to most likely find that he hadn't had a single visitor to his website, let alone a new message in his inbox? Useless. Pointless.

Before the tedium of existence could pervade his very soul, the sudden jarring tune of '_God Save the Queen_' intruded upon the silent darkness from inside his jar of teeth. Ah, that was where he'd left his phone, then. He most decidedly did not leap up to answer it. He had no desire to talk to Mycroft at the moment, not even to stave off boredom. If there was one upside to his current living quarters, it was how it naturally repelled his brother from visiting.

His brother, who was one of the most singular individuals Sherlock knew, but who had nonetheless managed to bump into his other half. Over Sherlock's dying body, no less. Ever since he had completed the transformation to alpha, Mycroft had been insufferable. Alphas protect; that was how the nursery rhyme went.

_Alphas protect and lead the rest,  
>omegas nurture and gather the nest,<br>betas balance and do their best_

When you are four years old, and you and all your peer mates are a beta, then it becomes quite natural to interpret the last line as 'betas are the best'. When you are four years old and you are Sherlock Holmes, you despise that rhyme. He had often heard 'do your best' and seen what other children's best meant. It was praise for mediocrity. When the other children played house and pretended to be alphas or omegas, Sherlock preferred playing pirates.

But if he had been invited to play, he knew he'd have been an alpha.

Alphas are natural leaders. Mycroft, before the change, had been ambitious and protective. After the change, he had become impossibly controlling. He acted as though he were Sherlock's family alpha, as though Mummy didn't even count. He was always watching, always nagging, always interfering.

According to Mycroft, this had nothing to do with becoming an alpha. According to Mycroft, he had always been an alpha, it was only his biology that hadn't been awakened. According to Mycroft, if Sherlock needed a reason for why his big brother was suddenly so caring (overbearing) and watchful (a stalker), he needed only consider the other circumstances surrounding Mycroft's awakening into his new dynamic. Such as his baby brother's clinical death from overdose.

Preposterous. Sherlock had almost died before and Mycroft had never reacted that way. Like the time at school when those boys had locked him in a closet, or the time he had exploded the chemistry lab. This, however, merely got an eye roll whenever Sherlock pointed it out.

"Spending the night in a closet is uncomfortable, not deadly," Mycroft would answer if Sherlock ever attempted to point this out. Mycroft never bothered to contradict the incident with the chemistry lab. Sherlock never bothered to point out that it wasn't the closet that was potentially deadly, but what one of the boys had locked in there with him. Somehow, Sherlock never liked to admit his own vulnerabilities to his brother. It wasn't like Mycroft wasn't intelligent enough to work it out for himself.

And if Mycroft the alpha was annoying, Lestrade the omega was worse. For one thing, Sherlock couldn't avoid Lestrade like he could avoid Mycroft. Lestrade was too entangled into the Work. For another, Lestrade had gone from the general interest of a close acquaintance to the concerned interest of a family member.

There was no way that Sherlock would be allowed both the Work and the Distraction that balanced him out when the Work was lacking. Like now.

He also, inexplicably, found himself caring when Lestrade expressed disappointment. He blamed it on biology. Omegas were known to emit pheromones that induced others to want to please them.

He didn't need drugs. He needed Work. He needed paying Work that could get him out of this flat and into more a respectable establishment. He needed a smoke. If not to distract him from the itch running beneath his skin, then to help him in his examination of different kinds of ash.

What he most definitely did not need, was a soul mate. He was fine alone.

_Note: Just for the record, Sherlock's opinion of the tv show in question is not my opinion; I quite enjoy that show. But then, I don't mind cluttering up my mind with trivia._


	2. Chapter 2

On the plus side, Sherlock no longer had to stay at that deathtrap of an apartment. On the downside, Sherlock hadn't had the chance to find a new location before the eviction came. Which is why Lestrade was now staring at Sherlock with resigned confusion.

"Why is your chemistry set spread over my kitchen table? And why do you smell of smoke?"

"You said I could come by anytime." He avoided any mention of the smoke. Sherlock had managed a shower and to change clothes before Lestrade had stumbled in, but the smoky odor proved to be pervasive. He supposed it was too much to hope that an omega's sensitive nostrils wouldn't notice.

"Sherlock…tell me you did not manage to burn down your apartment building."

"I did not manage to burn down my apartment building."

"You're lying aren't you?"

"Most of the building is perfectly sound. It was confined to my own flat."

As it turned out, perhaps running to the omega mate of his brother wasn't the best choice. If Sherlock had found an abandoned building as had been his first plan, there would be no one about to drag him into A&E after he became aware of Sherlock's slightly scorched forearm. The entire visit was dull and tedious and unnecessary, and if anything made his arm hurt worse from all the poking and prodding.

Even worse, it wasn't St. Bart's where Sherlock was semi-known and could probably have gotten away with sneaking off to visit the morgue instead of being confined to an uncomfortable waiting chair while nurses glowered at him.

"This isn't exactly how I hoped to spend my evening, either, Sherlock," Lestrade pointed out. He did have a tiredness to his voice that made something in Sherlock curl up unpleasantly. He blamed the pheromones and lashed out stubbornly against the sensation. He had no reason to feel guilt. The words that came out at Lestrade were low and vicious.

"You don't need to mother me like some beta pup just because you can't have your own. You aren't my mum."

Instead of rising to the bait, or even giving the slightest sign those words might have hurt, Lestrade merely raised an eyebrow.

"Oh? Did you want me to call your mum? I'm terribly sorry, I'll have him here in a trice…"

It was probably unnecessary for Sherlock to bat at Lestrade's phone with enough force to send it against a wall. It was pure instinct. Luckily, Lestrade had actually been expecting such an overblown reaction so Sherlock only managed to side swipe the phone and knock it into Lestrade's lap while jarring his burn with the force behind the swing.

Sherlock most definitely did not spend the next five minutes huddled in a miserable ball of guilt and pain for having aggravated the burn on his arm. He was curled up because he was bored. And he didn't ask Lestrade to rub his back soothingly while his soft voice offered words of facts about the last crime scene he had visited.

The end result was that someone finally came to see to Sherlock's arm, and Sherlock was able to mutter at Lestrade, "The brother did it."

Finally, a good three hours after they had set off to see to the burn, (and then, to Sherlock's great annoyance, checked his lungs as well. How was that necessary? He wasn't even coughing!) they made it back to Lestrade's flat. Which brought up the other reason staying with Lestrade had been a last resort. Mycroft was waiting.

"I trust now you know the dangerous drawbacks in smoking?"

"My lungs are fine. Quite healthy, the doctor said."

"Surprisingly healthy considering, I think were the words he used." Lestrade was no help at all when dealing with Mycroft. Sherlock wondered if he should do a study on the debilitating effect on brain activity in bonded mates.

"I wasn't speaking of your lungs, dear brother," Mycroft said in that annoying voice he had. The tone alone implied that Sherlock was a bit on the slow side and needed information spoon fed before he'd understand. That tone had an unfortunate way of making Sherlock forget himself and give too much information just to prove he knew said information.

"You never did explain how you managed to burn down your flat," Lestrade said, not condescending but not contradicting Mycroft's words either.

"It wasn't from smoking, if that's what you think," Sherlock answered. It wasn't, either. Smoking had been a perfectly safe endeavor and had given him reams of notes on ashes. It was the candle he had lit to combat the power outage that had ultimately been the culprit. That and the intruder.

Mycroft looked very doubtful. Lestrade looked curious. Sherlock crossed his arms, jerked his arms back quickly and then crossed them the other way in a way that didn't aggravate his burn and refused to offer any more.

"Isn't it lovely when our pup comes home to visit?" Lestrade asked Mycroft with annoying cheerfulness. "Shall I be the nurturing omega and call us all some Chinese?"

"I could send out for something…healthier," Mycroft offered. He probably meant he could ring up his personal chef. Knowing his influence, he could probably get his assistant to fetch from any restaurant in London.

Up to that moment, Sherlock was quite prepared to say he wasn't hungry. But the prospect of annoying Mycroft with greasy fast food was too much to pass up.

"You know, I quite fancy Chinese," Sherlock announced. Which of course meant that Lestrade sided with Sherlock because when did he ever admit to being hungry? Besides, Sherlock was wounded. Mycroft's dismayed look was worth having to endure their company long enough to actually eat the meal.

Later, after Sherlock had retreated to what he called the guest room and what Lestrade and Mycroft (and Sherlock, in his head) called 'Sherlock's room', there was a muffled discussion over whether Mycroft should spend the night or if, as Lestrade suggested, things were in hand and Mycroft should return to whatever crisis he had been dealing with and stay in his own rooms.

Sherlock offered his own opinion through the door that they could both leave to stay at Mycroft's place and Sherlock could look after Lestrade's flat. The laughter that answered his suggestion was entirely unwarranted.

Sherlock had to find a new place to stay. Preferably one which didn't house thugs, miscreants, or poorer households. Having his next door neighbor barge in while he was trying to work was annoying, especially when the young omega came dragging two young children. The explanation that he was 'safe' was ridiculous in the extreme. He had hired the older child one time, only one time, to spy on a potential murderer and somehow the mum had decided that meant he was safe? If anything, it should prove the opposite.

The fact that he managed to fend off their alpha, who was high off illegal substances and chasing them with mad intentions, was beside the point. Sherlock Holmes was not 'safe'. He was not a protective alpha, mindlessly facing off against the dangers of the world. Nor was he a nurturing, soft hearted omega. Though he noted omegas could be quite vicious when their pups were threatened.

As it turns out, candles make rubbish weapons. Candlestick holders, on the other hand, can be used to great effect. As can rickety old chairs in the hands of deranged omegas in the defense of her pups. Which was just as well, because the elder child was quite ready to prove the effectiveness of a microscope in protection of her mum. Sherlock should have been very annoyed if that had been broken.

All in all, it wasn't so much the fire that the landlord had objected to, or even the fight, a not uncommon occurrence in the establishment. The real objection had been that the landlord and the insane and drugged up alpha happened to be one and the same.

Sherlock wished he could say that the omega and her children were now well free of him, but the silly woman had shown the weakness of her dynamic, blamed the drugs rather than the alpha, and all in all the only real result of the altercation was a momentary respite from their alpha and Sherlock's need for a new place to live.

Even if he could have blackmailed the landlord into letting him stay, the fire damage and broken door did not make for ideal lodgings. The decision to stay with Lestrade instead was entirely based upon that, and had nothing to do with the way his hands had been shaking, just a bit, as he carried over his boxes.

By the end of the week, Sherlock wasn't sure who was going to go insane and murder the other first; himself or Lestrade.

He even considered returning to his old lodgings after all, only to discover the entire building had mysteriously been condemned and the former landlord had been arrested on drug trafficking charges. Whether the silly omega and her children had been willing to take their alpha back or not, the alpha was now in prison and unable to touch any of them.

Sherlock didn't know whether to be furious or relieved at Mycroft's meddling. He was just settling on furious when he learned Mycroft hadn't actually been involved, for once. As it turned out, the bust had been up to Lestrade.

Sherlock settled on feeling nothing about the matter, and turned his attentions to an unexpected client who had heard of him through a friend of a friend of a former client and had lost their dog. Ridiculously simple and not at all on Sherlock's level, but the reward was lucrative and Sherlock really really needed a way to afford new lodgings that didn't included deranged landlords.

It turned out to be the newly transitioned omega's jealous aunt, a bonded alpha who had long considered herself the family alpha of her nephew and disliked his new alpha husband immensely. Sherlock was so glad he was a beta. Mike Stamford was just happy to get his dog back.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had found the perfect flat. A former…well, she wasn't exactly a client, but someone Sherlock had found himself helping out all the same, was the landlord. Mrs. Hudson was a beta, and at her age there was very little chance for her to ever find someone who would spark the transition into alpha or omega. Sherlock rather liked that about her. She wasn't pining for some unknown mate to complete her.

She was also offering a discount, and was already predisposed to like Sherlock, a rarity in a landlord. Unfortunately, even at a discount his current funds were somewhere in the range of two hundred pounds. He needed a loan.

"Of course, Sherlock. I'd be happy to help you out. Delighted!"

Lestrade was far too cheerful at the prospect of giving Sherlock money, but the tone wasn't quite sarcastic. Sherlock had made a great study in tones of voice and was well versed in sarcasm thanks to his older brother. So Lestrade was telling the truth, but something was off. At the very least, he should be grumbling more.

"I will pay you back when my business picks up," Sherlock tried cautiously, trying to sound him out. Perhaps Lestrade was simply that desperate to get Sherlock out of his flat? But that made no sense. Not only did Lestrade have an entire other flat to stay in when Sherlock became too annoying, but he was also well able to dump Sherlock elsewhere if Sherlock truly outstayed his welcome.

"Actually, Sherlock, there's something I wanted to discuss with you." He still sounded too cheerful. Something was definitely wrong. Feeling rather as though he were walking into a trap, Sherlock nonetheless allowed Lestrade to continue.

"You know how you offer a great deal of help to us. To Scotland Yard, I mean. And you don't get paid for your services…"

They had, in the beginning, rather stumbled into their relationship. Sherlock had offered unsolicited information, and along the way the information became solicited, but only just, and somehow talk of 'consulting fees' had never come up. His acceptance as a consultant had always felt too tenuous for Sherlock to start demanding pay.

"You wish to know my consulting fees?" Sherlock asked, voice still cautious.

"Not exactly. I mean, I think you deserve pay, what with all the help you give, but nothing so official. I'd like to offer you a monthly allowance. It would pay your rent, and for food. Even clothes if you weren't such a posh bastard."

"Scotland Yard wants to offer me a monthly salary?" That definitely sounded like a trap. It was too good to be true, for one. At the very least, they wouldn't let him pick and choose the good cases. There's probably be paperwork too.

"Not exactly," Lestrade answered, managing to sound both cheerful and anxious. He was anticipating Sherlock's reaction. It only took Sherlock a second to figure out why. Lestrade obviously couldn't pay Sherlock a salary out of his own paycheck, and if Scotland yard wasn't offering there was really only one source of this so-called income.

"Mycroft. Mycroft wants to…what…pay me? Why? What does he want? I told him I won't work for him!"

"Calm down, sunshine. Honest, you do deserve pay. That's it. No strings; you still pick and choose your cases. Well. There is one thing."

And now Lestrade looked truly anxious.

"What one thing?"

"We're happy to set you up in your new flat. A spacious place, isn't it? Two bedrooms? A bit pricy, that, for the government to be footing the bill…"

"Just tell me, Lestrade. If he's trying to…"

"You need a flatmate."

There was a moment of silence. The two men stared at each other.

"No."

"Look, I know you don't want…"

"No. I don't need a nanny, I don't need a bodyguard, or whatever else this…this…"

"It won't be like that. Mycroft wanted to assign someone to you, but I talked him down. He doesn't care who the flatmate is, as long as it isn't a serial killer or drug user or something. You can find your own flatmate. Or you can let Mycroft choose. He…we just want someone there. In case of fires or, well. In case."

"I don't need a minder! I'm almost thirty years old! Betas are not synonymous with over-grown children!"

"I never said they were. Look, I know you don't want some stranger in your space, but surely you know someone? Someone who you don't mind?"

"I don't mind you, usually. Do you want to move?"

"Fair point. Not a chance. Alright, it sucks, but you don't have any options. You aren't staying here another week and you can't afford a place on your own. If you don't like it, you can always move back in with Mummy."

"There's always other options."

"What, an abandoned building? And how many clients are going to come to you if you don't even have a proper address. How many clients do you think were scared away when you were living in that deathtrap of a flat surrounded by drug addicts and thieves? You want to be a consulting detective? You need a proper space for that. As soon as you can afford to pay your own rent, you can kick your flatmate out and there won't be anything Mycroft can do to stop you.

"He'll find a way. It's Mycroft."

"You can move in to your new flat today. You have a week to find your flatmate, before Mycroft chooses."

So it was a trap, and neatly sprung. But there was a way to escape, or at least to make the conditions of this 'loan' tolerable. He'd find his own flatmate. It couldn't be too hard. And surely it wouldn't be for long. New, respectable lodgings would go a long way towards procuring more clients. Better clients. He'd be paying for himself by the end of the month.

The first flatmate he found lasted one night.

In hindsight, perhaps marching down the street and grabbing the first homeless person he saw who wasn't chasing her own ghosts and telling her they were now flatmates wasn't the best way to go about it.

She made use of the flat's shower, enjoyed the luxury of a bed all to herself and out of the elements, then got up early and made off with all the cash Sherlock had on hand and half the food in the fridge. Which wasn't much. She was even thankful enough for his generosity to not touch his phone, laptop, or violin, all of which Sherlock had carelessly left strewn about the sitting room. She also left a note.

'_Thx 4 th offr. I lik th sts.'_

The second flatmate Sherlock found was arrested by Lestrade the same day for drug trafficking. Luckily, the would-be flatmate hadn't had time to store any of his stash in the new flat so nothing came back to hurt Sherlock.

His third flatmate that week was neither a drug dealer nor a drifter. She was still picked up within twenty-four hours, this time by social services. Lestrade came over to talk after that one.

"You can't just take in an eight year old off the street, Sherlock! It's kidnapping!"

"She agreed to it."

"She's a minor! She can't agree to things!"

"I wasn't having sex with her. She needed a place to stay. Her mum was rubbish."

"That's what social services are for!"

"They said her mum was fine and sent her back! It was obvious things were not fine!"

In the end, Sherlock was not charged with kidnapping and Rita didn't have to live with her mum anymore. Sherlock still didn't get to keep her.

The fourth flatmate was vetoed by Mrs. Hudson. Apparently she was allergic.

The fifth flatmate was also vetoes by Mrs. Hudson. She wasn't allergic. Apparently she had an unwarranted bias against reptiles.

"It isn't reptiles," Mrs. Hudson explained, "It's reptiles that can inject poison."

"A common misconception. Poison refers to a substance that is absorbed by the body. Venom, on the other hand, is only harmful upon contact with blood and cannot be absorbed by the body. In fact, one could safely drink a glass of venom, provided of course that one does not have any cuts within one's digestive tract."

Mrs. Hudson still made him send the Indian swamp adder back. He also got voicemail from Mycroft. It would have been a proper conversation but Sherlock had refused to answer.

"_Your new flatmate must be human. No more pets. You have two days before my choice moves in. Tick tock, little brother."_

Sherlock was beginning to despair.

On the other hand, the new location had already proven beneficial to his business. Between a new client and a new case from Lestrade, Sherlock found himself distracted from his search. It was at once thrilling to be working and aggravating that this was also to be his downfall.

He needed to go to St. Bart's. Both his cases depended upon it. Where was he to find a flatmate at Bart's, though? He wondered if he could find a student who needed a flat. Students were always needing flats, weren't they?

As it turned out, they did not need a flat enough to take one with such an attachment as Sherlock Holmes. Two laughed outright at the very idea. One threatened calling security on him (apparently going up to a young beta woman and asking her to move in was considered a threat to her wellbeing. As if he'd be interested in her.). Three more already were happy where they were. Molly stuttered a lot before Sherlock remembered her cats. Could he find no one in the entire hospital?

What he found was a former client. He couldn't quite remember his name, just that he had a dog named Andrew. Said client did not need a flatmate. He was an omega, for one, so already had a readymade flatmate in the form of his actual mate. And for another, he was annoying. Sherlock would never have been able to stand him.

"It's a pity you weren't able to keep the puppy," the man told him cheerfully. "But you'll be happy to know we did find her a good home."

"I hardly thought you likely to drown her," Sherlock answered. It was somewhat satisfying to make the man stop smiling, if only for a moment. Unfortunately, it didn't last.

"You said your flatmate turned out allergic?" Definitely not flatmate material if he couldn't even remember a simple detail given only a couple days ago, that it was the landlady who was allergic. He ignored the fact that he himself didn't remember the simple detail of his former client's name. He hadn't forgotten, after all. He had deleted it.

"I don't have a flatmate," he said, in lieu of calling the man an idiot. Generally it was a good idea to leave clients happy with him. That sometimes led to new clients. Or free meals. "I need a flatmate. That's why I wanted the dog."

Former Client looked ridiculously confused for a moment, before he settled upon the part of that he understood.

"Oh, you're looking for a flatmate?"

"I have two days to find one. But who would have me as a flatmate?"

For all his attempts to be cheerful and polite, this question apparently left Former Client stumped.

"Have you tried the students?"

In the end, Sherlock got on with his experiments. Molly Hooper let him into the morgue. She was a beta, like him, but unlike him had definite aspirations to one day stumble upon her soulmate and to transition into an omega. Definitely omega. Not an alpha personality. Only an omega personality would feel the need to intrude upon the Work to offer to bring drinks. Still, as long as she felt the need to be useful, he might as well make use of her. It was too bad about all her cats; she would have made an adequate and minimally annoying flatmate.

Though perhaps it was just as well. Someone so obviously in search of a mate would not, in the long run, settle for just a flat. Why people weren't simply happy being betas was beyond him. Sherlock had no intention of transitioning into an alpha. He'd hate having a needy omega to look after; it was hard enough looking after himself.

Why Mycroft's little 'salary' couldn't extend to adequate lab equipment was beyond Sherlock.

Aha! He had solved Lestrade's simple little case. Now he just needed to text him. Except, of course his phone had vanished again. As luck would have it, that was the exact moment that his Former Client returned. If he was really going to continuously be popping up like this, perhaps Sherlock should make the effort to re-remember his name. Mickey wasn't it? Or Mark?

Never mind. Former Client was useless. Who doesn't carry their mobile around with them?

"Here, use mine."

Sherlock glanced at the stranger and at the way Former Client was practically jumping up and down in excitement. Of course; the former soldier and doctor was in need of a flatmate. Well, he didn't look too horrendous. Most definitely better than anyone Mycroft would force on him. So he reached for the phone.

And that was the moment when everything changed.

Author's Note: Enter John at last! Also, if you absolutely hate cliffhangers, I advise following the link from the beginning of the AO3 version of the story to livejournal. It still ends on a cliff hanger at the moment, but not this one. Warning though: I didn't make much effort to clean up that version (which is why this is going up a chapter at a time; easier for me to read through and catch things. Feel free to tell me what I missed). And I will admit that I rather enjoy staggering chapters; more people tend to review that way. :) Thanks to those who did respond, both the praise and the constructive criticism.

In other news, Mir Foote has a new book out: Eleanor Rosaline Kidnaps a Dragon. Which has nothing to do with this story, but I thought I'd share anyway. In case anyone enjoys juvenile fiction like I do.


	4. Chapter 4

According to popular romantic nonsense in various formats, when two destined souls find one another, there is an instant connection. The moment the two souls are in the same room, they sense each other's presence. The moment their hands touch for the first time (or lips in the racier versions) there is a jolt of electricity between them. In older versions, the kind full of lace and petticoats, the destined omega faints into the alpha's arms.

According to Lestrade and Mycroft, the bodily reaction to finding their mate was so inconsequential that it took them hours to even notice the forming bond. This might have had something to do with the adrenalin pumping through their systems as they desperately attempted to revive Sherlock's failing body.

According to the pamphlets handed out to young teenagers on the verge of puberty, there is a recognition of each other's pheromones which may present as attraction towards the destined mate. The bond forms upon skin contact. No pamphlet had ever been able to adequately explain to Sherlock what that meant. It wasn't telepathy. It wasn't even empathy. The closest he could understand it was imprinting. According to the pamphlet, bonded individuals will never desire another person again.

This Sherlock knew to be completely untrue. The number of adultery crimes he'd investigated proved this. So did the number of marriages occurring after the death of a partner. Whatever the truth was of the matter, it was a scientific fact that, following the bonding, there came the transition. One of the bonded pair would transition from beta to alpha, the other to omega. They become wed in the eyes of the law.

When he saw John Watson for the first time, he did not instantly know, no matter the talk about pheromones or instant attractions. At best, he felt an instant sense of 'he'll do' in his quest to find a flatmate. Then their fingers brushed.

Sherlock had always dismissed stories of couples fainting as overly dramatic, and indeed all he physically felt was a sort of lurch in his chest, as though his heart had literally skipped a beat. It was the strange _knowing_ that truly caught him off guard. He actually had to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying something so clichéd as 'It's you'.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" was hardly a better opening line to one's new soulmate, but at least it was original.

The conversation that followed felt like it was taking part on several levels. As this was how Sherlock normally interacted with the world, he didn't think it had anything to do with the unexpected meeting with his soulmate. On the one level, he started listing his own faults ('soulmates really should know the worst of each other, don't you think?').

On another level, his mind was still on his case and sending the message to Lestrade.

On still another level, he was quietly panicking. This wasn't supposed to happen. Sherlock wasn't alpha material; he just wasn't. He could barely look after himself, let alone an omega. Sherlock should be running in the opposite direction, perhaps finding a way to halt the bond before it started. But somehow the very idea of running away, of not being near this man, this stranger, was even more panic inducing. Behind his own thoughts of run, no STAY, was an undefined fear that this man is the one who should be running. It wasn't even that Sherlock knew he was going to be a horrible alpha. Sherlock knew that he wasn't a likeable person, let alone loveable. No one should have to be saddled with him unto death.

And on yet another level, he was ecstatic to have a firsthand analysis of the bonding process. Unlike his brother, who hadn't even noticed his own bonding for ages. Sherlock knew from the first touch. He'd be able to analyze and to observe, and to maybe finally understand what all those pamphlets tried to explain.

With all these contradictory feelings, he may have attempted to run away before telling John Watson a few pertinent details. Like his own name. Or address. Luckily, John had gotten over his own shock enough to ask.

Then Sherlock ran. To get the riding crop, of course. Not because he was running away. If he had truly been trying to run away, he wouldn't have told John the address.

Well, he had certainly beat Mycroft at his own game. Not even Mycroft would be able to replace a soulmate with his own preference of flatmate. And John was a soldier, and a doctor, so not a complete idiot. He'd always assumed that if the impossible did happen, and he did run into his perfect match, that person would have to be a genius too. John didn't look exactly like a genius, though. His expression had been a bit befuddled, though if Sherlock were honest, he probably deserved that.

He had a soulmate.

His long strides taking him towards the morgue began to slow. He, Sherlock Holmes, had a soulmate. Soon his identity of beta would be a thing of the past. His identity as single would be gone as well. His whole identity, changed with a single touch.

The weirdest thing about it was how happy he felt. He should be horrified. He should be angry.

"Endorphins," he said to himself. Everyone knew that newly bonded are flooded with endorphins. Some said it would be painful otherwise. Others said it was the body's way of letting you know something good had happened.

Was John happy? Did he care if John was happy? He was supposed to care, wasn't he? There wasn't supposed to be a stronger connection between two people than soulmates. Not siblings, not parents, some said not even children. (Would they have children? Panic! Delete!) Did John care if he was happy? His brief impression had been of the sort of person who cared.

Sherlock honestly did not know how to feel in that moment. He didn't think he felt love. Slowly, like poking at an old wound or sore tooth to see if it might hurt, he tried to imagine John leaving him. Not even dying, just…saying no, and leaving.

It wasn't pain, he didn't think, but something very unpleasant shuddered through him. It felt rather like fear. Like when he had been cornered as a boy by the other children, but before the first hit. Like the sensation between falling and landing. It felt like impending pain.

Sherlock Holmes did not faint at any point during the bonding process, no matter what Molly later said. His legs just got away from him for a moment and he had to sit down.

"Your internal organs are starting to change," Molly told him, her voice thick with disbelief and something else, something Sherlock couldn't quite read. "You're meant to be in resting. With your soulmate. Sleeping through the changes leading up to the first heat. Eating protein rich foods."

"Says who?" He'd forgotten about heats. He preferred not to think about that aspect of bonding, especially after it had happened to his brother. There were some things that he never ever wanted to consider, and Mycroft having sex was one of them. Well, at least John was likely to be experienced. If nothing else, he was a doctor.

"Says everyone! You…you actually met your soulmate. Why are you down here?"

"I forgot my riding crop."

"Sherlock…you do remember what happens now, right? You didn't delete the entirety of sex ed?" She sounded so sincere and earnest. And if Sherlock said he had deleted it, he knew she'd actually sit down with him and talk him through the whole process. How the omega's uterus grows, how the vaginal opening develops in males, how alpha's muscles strengthen, and their penis grows and develops. How the first heat ends the entire process. How first heat can't be stopped or controlled but that it's short and the chances of conceiving during first heat are so rare that it was generally considered impossible, known as a sterile heat.

She'd even tell him about knotting and marking and Sherlock had no doubt she'd manage it without blushing or stammering. Sherlock even understood, a bit, that this was hard for her. Not giving the information, but facing another's happiness in finding something she longed for with all her heart. He almost felt choked up, looking into her earnest expression. Hormones, he reminded himself as he struggled to regain control. He'd be hormonal until the bond settled.

"I do know the basics," Sherlock told her, before she could try to be more helpful. "And I don't have to rest."

"The largest changes occur during sleep." Molly frowned at him. "I know that look. Sherlock Holmes, you are not staying awake as long as possible just to see what happens."

"It was just a thought. I want to document everything. Perhaps a camera."

"Go to your soulmate, Sherlock."

In the end, Sherlock did leave the morgue, riding crop in hand. He took a taxi back to his flat instead of the tube. He told himself it was because he might as well use Mycroft's generous salary now that he had gotten out of Mycroft's stipulation. It had nothing to do with how unbalanced he felt.

His thoughts on the way home were consumed with soulmates. He had a soulmate. Should he clean the flat before John came? What if John hated the flat? What if he insisted they move? Did John want them to sleep in the same room? But Sherlock liked the way his room was. John might upset his sock index! Only an hour or so ago, his only thought in the world was how horrendous it was to have to share his flat with a stranger; now he was sharing his life.

And he still felt happy. Terrified, unbalanced, slightly woozy, but happy. Well, at least he'd have some time to clean up a bit.

Then he got out at almost the same time John Watson exited his own cab. Oh. Well, he had told John the address. He should have expected him to follow him home.

They stood on the pavement outside the door, just looking at each other. John didn't look angry. He didn't look pleased either.

"Sherlock Holmes," John said at last.

"John Watson." They stared at each other, neither moving to touch hands or to leave or to go in. Then John smiled, a genuine smile, and Sherlock felt that same lurch in his chest all over again. He hoped this bond wasn't going to induce heart failure.

Mrs. Hudson had to let them in because Sherlock had forgotten his key with his phone and just then didn't seem to be the moment to show off his lock picking skills to his new mate. It was just as well. Apparently it was considered good manners for a new resident to greet their landlady before moving in.

"You found someone after all!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed after Sherlock's introduction. "He didn't abduct you off the street did he? Well, the rooms are just up here. The second room is up the stairs. Though really, Sherlock, I do think you could switch rooms, what with his leg…"

"Er…actually…do we need two bedrooms?" John was looking at Sherlock curiously as he said this, trying to gauge his preference, obviously not wanting to presume.

"Are you two boys together?" Mrs. Hudson asked, "Sherlock, you didn't tell me you had a boyfriend! Well, it is unusual, two young betas settling together, but I don't judge. Mrs. Turner has married ones! Only twenty-three and already given up on…"

"Mrs. Hudson! We aren't…we…we aren't betas. Not anymore." Perhaps that was a rather awkward way for Sherlock to have put it. He still didn't think it should have taken Mrs. Hudson so long to work out what he was saying.

When she did, she gave a shriek piercing enough to break windows, or at least their ears.

"Oh, that's wonderful! And you can use the extra bedroom as the nursery!" And she went on ahead spouting a happy stream of nonsense about babies and marriage and the like.

John Watson looked bemused, then amused, especially after he caught Sherlock's expression at the word 'nursery'.

"Don't worry," he said to Sherlock, "I don't expect we'll need a nursery any time soon. We don't even have to share a room. Why don't we just…get to know each other a bit and see what happens?"

"Yes, of course." He followed Mrs. Hudson into the rooms. John took quite a bit longer to get up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson spent the time complaining about Sherlock's mess before rounding on them again.

"I don't suppose you know your new dynamics yet? Who will be the alpha and who the omega?"

"Probably not for another twenty-four hours until we really know," John told her. Sherlock didn't bother to correct him. Perhaps they wouldn't officially know, but it was already obvious to him. John seemed kind and nurturing, and Sherlock was the very opposite of that.

"You need protein," Mrs. Hudson decided at the end of the tour, "Sherlock never knows how to shop. Here, I'll bring you both something up, just this once mind, I'm not your housekeeper."

"Actually, fruits and veg are important, too," John told her. Of course, he was a doctor. Between him and Mrs. Hudson they'd probably try and make him stuff himself. Or maybe not. Sherlock saw someone out of the window. The car he was driving told him this wasn't just a social visit.

There had been another murder.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was all the way down the stairs after Lestrade left when his steps faltered. It wasn't so much that he changed his mind as that his mind finally caught up to him. John. It wasn't even a feeling of loss, or pain of separation; if it had been that, Sherlock very likely would have rebelled against his own inclinations and pressed on.

He didn't feel bad about leaving John behind. But he still wanted his company. He suspected that might be true even if John hadn't been his soulmate. John, who could be useful. John who didn't act horrified to be in his presence. The truth of the matter was that he wanted to show off. Show off his own abilities to John. Show off John to others. To show everyone.

He went back up the stairs far more slowly than he had bounded down them. Getting John to agree to come was the work of a moment; he actually lit up at the prospect. Strange. That was how Sherlock reacted to murders but most people frowned upon it. Or was he excited to spend more time with Sherlock? Even stranger. Whatever the reason, Sherlock felt a curious warmth in his chest. But now wasn't the time for sentiment. He had a case!

With John properly at his side, Sherlock again rushed for the door. It occurred to him only as he was halfway out it that perhaps he might have gone a bit slower, because of John's leg. That was the sort of thing soulmates were supposed to think of, wasn't it? But no, John had followed almost as quickly. Interesting.

John seemed fascinated by Sherlock in return. The cab ride to the crime scene was filled with such words as 'brilliant', and 'extraordinary'. As often happened with Sherlock, it was only after he had explained to John how he knew his brother was a drunk that he remembered how revealing unflattering secrets of a person's family or friends was on Mycroft's List of 'How to Avoid Punches to the Face'. As something NOT TO DO. Number one on that list had been 'Don't speak'. And people wondered why Sherlock despised his brother.

John didn't punch Sherlock in the face. Nor did he tell him to piss off, as often happened when he shared his observations. Perhaps this 'Harry' was John's version of a Mycroft?

Ah. Harriet. Well, there was always something. And there they were at the crime scene. Back to the real world.

"Hello, Freak."

Sally Donovan was not a bad person. She wasn't even a horrendous detective. She was a beta woman, which was a rarity in a field which naturally attracted alpha males in the same way primary schools were full of female omega teachers. The fact that she had managed to rise to her position anyway was a credit to her. If she ever did meet her soulmate, something which was becoming increasingly unlikely, Scotland Yard might gain itself a new alpha…but then it might discover an omega high in its ranks. Technically, it was illegal to discriminate. In actuality, the entirety of their culture rebelled against placing an omega in such a dangerous position. Lestrade, for instance, came rather as an unwanted surprise.

"It's rubbish," Lestrade had said once, when he heard someone protesting yet again an omega in close contact with murderers. "Omegas can be downright vicious in protecting their own. There's nothing soft or gentle about a nursing mother when danger is about." And most investigators, many who had seen grisly examples of capable omega murderers, agreed with him. The public at large, and quite often the people in charge, did not.

So perhaps Sally Donovan resented, somewhat, her commanding officer's brother-in-law being allowed to take over her job while insulting her, her colleagues, and his own brother-in-law who had graciously allowed entry in the first place. He probably deserved her resentment. Actually, he found sparring with her rather fun. She'd call him a freak, he'd call her something in return, and then use his deductions to prove he was the one who was right.

For the first time in a long time, being called a freak made him pause. It was different. John was there to hear. John, who definitely was not a freak and yet who would now be viewed as another part of Sherlock, just as Sherlock would now be seen as a reflection of John.

Sherlock had been planning on announcing him, like a sudden secret weapon to win the war. Look! He, Sherlock Holmes, had a soulmate. How was that for 'freak'? Or he had been planning on not mentioning it at all, just to see how long it took Scotland Yard's finest to figure it out on their own. Ages, probably. He hadn't quite decided what he was going to do.

He wasn't excepting John to growl, low and deep, so low one would have to be standing very close to him to hear it at all. Sally didn't hear it but she seemed to sense it, her expression slightly wary.

Sally Donovan was many things, but she probably didn't deserve to be attacked by a newly transitioning, hormonal man, recently back from a war who felt his mate was under threat.

Plus, it would probably end with both of them in lockup until Mycroft could get them out and Sherlock would never get to examine the crime scene or solve the case. Not to mention, he didn't need John to fight his battles.

Let the verbal dance commence.

Sherlock introduced Donovan to John, his own tone seeming to appease the man that Sherlock wasn't wounded by her words. Then he introduced Anderson, the young alpha who was proof positive that it was possible for a bonded person to be attracted to someone outside that bond. How they got away with it, Sherlock couldn't fathom. The stench of that deodorant was so strong it almost made him gag.

John went from growling to giggling as they made for the stairs.

Lestrade seemed confused by John. He knew that Sherlock had been looking for a flatmate. He knew that Sherlock had found John Watson. By this point, Mycroft probably had an entire file on the man. What he didn't seem to know, though how he could miss it, Sherlock had no idea, was that they were soulmates. Sometimes Sherlock despaired of people's idiocy. Though to be fair, it was too soon for their scents to have actually changed yet.

"So, you're the new flatmate," Lestrade said to John, just as though they were getting to know each other over some pints. Something that would probably actually happen in the near future, knowing Lestrade.

"I suppose I am," John answered.

"He didn't…I mean, how did you two meet?"

"A friend. Mike Stamford. He knew we were both looking for flatmates and introduced us to each other."

There was still no mention from John that they were soulmates. Well, the longer Lestrade didn't know, the longer it might take Mycroft to figure it out. That could be fun.

And speaking of fun. The body was that of an omega woman. Statistically speaking, seventy percent of women who transitioned became omega. There was some debate as to whether women were naturally more submissive than men or whether a woman transitioning into an omega was simply the easiest way for nature to go, with less chance of something going wrong that might render the omega infertile. Whatever the reason, she was hardly a rarity. It did explain, though, why half the force seemed so on edge. Omega murders bothered alphas on a primal level.

John didn't seem too bothered, though. He was quite able to examine the body at Sherlock's request. Of course, omegas were never quite as bothered as betas or alphas with what happened to other omegas, but as Sherlock and John were still mostly beta, it was somewhat pleasing for Sherlock to find his new mate didn't have the same queasy expression as Anderson. Then again, he had been an army doctor. He probably had to learn to overcome his primal urges. Still, whatever the reason, it was pleasing to find his mate on a similar level to himself.

Which didn't mean John was quite on the same level as Sherlock; his observations were far from genius level even if they did show a competent level of intelligence. Strangely, Sherlock didn't feel disappointed. What if John had been a genius? What if he had been able to do exactly what Sherlock could do? What if he had been able to do it better?

If John had been a genius, would he still be saying words like 'Amazing' when Sherlock revealed what he knew?

And if ever there was a case worthy of the adjective 'brilliant' it was this one. Not even Anderson's stupidity could ruin this case. '_The woman was German, the woman was lured here, the woman couldn't possibly be an adulteress, she was an omega! Omegas just don't do that!_' Even Lestrade couldn't restrain his look of disgust at that bit of hypocrisy. Anderson's affair, thanks to Sherlock, was pretty much an open secret.

And then Lestrade said the words that made the entire scene come alive inside Sherlock's brain.

"There was no case!"

Sherlock quite honestly didn't mean to leave John behind, but he had only had a soulmate for a few hours. How was he supposed to change the habits of a lifetime in a few hours? It wasn't his fault that John was slow.

It occurred to him, after he had the case and had brought it back to Baker Street, that he could have gone back for John as soon as he had noticed that John hadn't followed. If John was going to be his omega, that meant Sherlock was supposed to look after him, right? But John was also a grown man. A grown man who had fought a war. A grown man whose limp seemed to vanish when the chance came to investigate a murder.

Sherlock considered what he knew of John. John wouldn't want to be coddled and protected. Anyone who was the perfect person for Sherlock wouldn't be the sort who was completely helpless. John wanted, no, _needed_ the very opposite of safety. So why had he failed to come home?

Sherlock didn't need John to finish the case. But he wanted him. He wanted him, and he hardly understood himself why. Well, at the very least, he could use John's phone to text the killer.

Sherlock sent John a text. After a bit of thought he sent another. He ended it with '_Could be dangerous_'. If his understanding of John wasn't completely off, that should bring him home.


	6. Chapter 6

John Watson was fifteen when his older sister met Clara. Harry's transition to alpha surprised no one and the two near strangers went off together in happy wedded bliss. John was happy for them. Truly. When one is fifteen, it doesn't matter if the statistics say one's sibling finding a soulmate significantly lowers one's own chances of having one. Harry was in the lucky fifty; it stood to reason that John was not. But he was fifteen, and when you are fifteen all things seem possible. He would be one of the lucky ones.

When he was twenty, still only barely in the age range for meeting his soulmate, the statistics started to take a more ominous feel. At twenty-five, still well within the normal age range, he nonetheless stopped grabbing each new potential date's hand with quite the same hope as before. By this time, the enchantment surrounding soulmates was beginning to wear thin. It wasn't the fairytale life that was promised by all the romantic movies. Harry and Clara were barely on speaking terms.

"You're the lucky one, Johnny boy," his sister slurred during their phone calls. "You have the pick of the girls. Me, I've one, just one. I never got to taste around, just…just one. Don't just have one, Johnny. Gotta have em all!" And then she would giggle as though that were hilarious.

When John decided to join the army, he was convinced there was no soulmate out there waiting for him. The army welcomed betas. They tended to think that anyone who sought out the army was obviously alpha material, so if a beta should happen to transition, they will gain another alpha. Statistics were actually on their side, but only because most soldiers were men, and those who weren't men tended to be alpha women. And if John did turn out to be an omega, well, the army actually had a surprisingly modern view of omegas. They were extremely useful in defusing violent situations. No one wanted to harm an omega, not even if it was an enemy omega.

If anyone had asked any of John's comrades, within the first week of them all meeting, whether John was more omega or alpha, every one of them would have said 'omega, no doubt'. If anyone then waited a few months and asked again, most everyone would say 'alpha'. Those that didn't say 'alpha' would probably be looking at the asker suspiciously and say 'why do you want to know?'.

Many years later, after a bullet shattered John's military career, after a hand tremor just about destroyed any doctor career that might follow, John knew without a doubt that there was never a beta who was so completely a beta as he was. He was on the wrong side of thirty-five, too old, too weak, too stubborn, too useless, too everything to be anything other than the blandest of the dynamics.

Then one day he met Sherlock Holmes and everything changed.

He had dreamed, as a child, as a youth, about what his soulmate might be like. Sherlock was not even on the radar. He was a he, for one. It wasn't that John was a member of those odd extremists that popped up every now and then who insisted that same sex pairings were an abomination which revealed some deep evil in such soulmates. Most of the world took the existence of same sex soulmates as proof that it was a natural occurrence, and John had never been prone to prejudice at any rate. But it still stood that in the majority of same sex soulmates, the soulmates in question were always attracted to their own sex. John had never been attracted to men.

Sherlock Holmes, John quickly came to realize, was absolutely singular. He was young, beautiful, a genius, energetic, and, in some inexplicable way, fragile. People don't run away after meeting their soulmate for the first time. They just don't. Under normal circumstances, John might have thought he was being rejected, despite the obvious invite to move in with him. He didn't feel rejected though. He felt protective. It was the bond, he supposed. Everyone said it wasn't empathy, or telepathy, but there was a connection forged between souls. John just felt like he understood. Sherlock wasn't rejecting him, but he was in shock. Sherlock hadn't expected this, any more than John had.

That wasn't to say that John perfectly understood Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was an enigma. He was full of contradictions. He was overpoweringly confident, but he soaked up praise like a cactus in a desert drank rain. He seemed to hate all things boring and mundane, yet he still seemed interested in John. He was able to see John's every flaw at a glance, but then seemed to take no notice. Then Sherlock flew out of the crime scene and left John alone.

It was embarrassing more than anything. Did Sherlock think he'd be able to move fast enough to keep up? Did Sherlock mean to leave him behind? Or did he simply forget him? John followed slowly.

It was probably the transition that was making his trip down the stairs so torturous, as much as the pain in his leg. He was a doctor. He knew they were supposed to be resting and eating so that their bodies could have the energy and time needed to create the changes. They needed lots of rest and energy to get through first heat.

Sherlock should be resting. John should have run faster. What if Sherlock suddenly fainted somewhere, and hit his head? It was known to happen. Granted, it was mostly known to happen in horrible romantic films, but that didn't stop the sudden fear curling in John's gut. What kind of soulmate let his mate run off during his transition to get into who knew what kind of trouble?

There was nothing John could do, now. He'd just have to go back to Baker Street, to home, and wait. If only he knew how to do that. If only his leg…oh. His leg _had_ stopped hurting for a bit. And now it was back.

He didn't want to ask the young beta woman where to go, as if John were a lost child. He didn't want to talk to the woman who called his mate a freak. But Sherlock had all but told him to let that go, and John really was lost. The cab that had brought them to the scene was long gone. He did try to be civil.

"You aren't his friend. He doesn't have friends."

John was trying very hard.

"He doesn't get paid. He gets off on it. He's a freak."

"No. He. Isn't."

Sally Donovan took a step backwards before she forced herself to stop. Her fear quickly transformed to confusion and then to shock.

"Seriously?" she exclaimed, "He found himself a soulmate? Him? But…"

"But psychopaths can't have soulmates? I have news for you. He isn't a psychopath."

"This is a trick. You're some beta he's paid to…"

John didn't know what kind of face he's making, but Donovan stopped talking and only barely stopped herself from taking another step backwards.

"I am sorry," she said at last. From the amount of pity in her voice, she wasn't apologizing for her words. Still, between those words and the slightly submissive tilt to her head he found the tension draining out of him. Before things could escalate once more, he turned and marched away.

He doesn't find Sherlock. He doesn't find a taxi. Instead he is kidnapped by an attractive beta woman and taken to an overly pompous alpha in a suit. The alpha tried to make a show of his dominance. He showed off his knowledge of John's background. He made a reference to John's 'flatmate'. The alpha's intelligence was not quite as intelligent as the man seemed to believe. Well, John certainly wasn't going to inform him of the truth. Not that it would be possible to hide it once the transition was complete, but for the moment he still smelled like a regular beta.

"Not interested."

The alpha actually looked surprised, for a very brief moment. As if John were going to be intimidated by cheap alpha tactics that seemed to come straight out of a Bond film. No, what he felt was a mixture of protective fear and fury, along with some good old Watson stubbornness. Let the man analyze John and his tremor and his therapist. He can look at John all he wants. This man was not going to come anywhere near his mate. John didn't care what sort of connections this alpha had.

_-Come at once if convenient._

His mate who was calling for him. Who hadn't forgotten him. Who needed him.

_-If not, come all the same._

_-Could be dangerous._

The alpha sent John on his way. John stopped to get his gun. Let the alpha know about that. Then he'd know how serious John was about keeping his mate safe.

Safe was probably a relative situation. The dead woman's pink case was sitting in their living room and Sherlock immediately had John send a text to the killer. At least they were going to a restaurant. John was starving, and he knew Sherlock should be too. The transition was going to demand they eat a lot of food. All in all, John decided to wait until they were on their way to bring up his own kidnapping.

"So, I met someone," John said. "Said he was your arch enemy."

"Oh. Right. I suppose he knows about us, now."

"He knows we're flatmates. He wanted to pay me to spy on you."

Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes for one full second, before suddenly bursting out in laughter.

"So, who is he? Something I should be worried about?"

"You met him, and he still doesn't know we're soulmates?" Sherlock asked, entirely too mirthful about the situation.

"Apparently not."

"Did you accept?" Then at John's blank look; "The money. To spy on me."

"What? No, of course not."

"You should have. We could have split the money. Think it through next time. Oh, stop pouting John. You did very well for your first meeting with the enemy. Better than I ever thought possible."

"Seriously, who is he? What is this about you and enemies? People in real life don't have enemies."

His new mate tried to explain how not having any friends was a preferred state of being and not a pitiable state of affairs.

How can someone as singular as Sherlock Holmes not have any friends? Surely the entire world wasn't made up of jealous sergeants? There had to be someone who could see how brilliant Sherlock was and connect with him. It was a bit of a relief to meet Angelo after that.

The restaurant was at once fun and embarrassing. The owner knew Sherlock, and was absolutely ecstatic that Sherlock had apparently brought a date.

"I'll get a candle for the table!" As embarrassing as his overblown reaction was, it was rather nice to see someone react kindly towards Sherlock. John supposed he'd have to get used to people seeing him and Sherlock as a couple. It was weird to think it. They hadn't even kissed yet, but in a few days, if biology had its way, they'd be having sex. It was lucky that neither of them was already attached to someone else.

His own embarrassment aside, it was rather fun to watch Sherlock squirm. He was here for a case, not a date, and had obviously not anticipated this reaction. John grinned and leaned over to whisper in his ear.

"Just imagine how he'd react if we told him we were soulmates." Sherlock's lips quirked upwards even as his eyes widened in alarm.

When the food came, Sherlock tried to insist he didn't eat on cases. No. That was definitely not how this was going to go.

"I'm a doctor. You are transitioning. I don't care if it stops your brain dead, you need food."

"I need to solve this case before biology takes over and makes me useless!"

"If you don't eat, you are going to faint. If you faint, I will drag you to hospital. If I drag you to hospital, the doctors there will learn of your condition. They will not let you go until the transition is over. How will you solve the case then?"

Sherlock pouted.

"Eat, Sherlock. It's basic biology. Even you can't fight that."

Sherlock continued to pout. Then he muttered something that might have been 'stupid nurturing omegas', or possibly 'stew pig murdering leg ups'. It was hard to tell. All John cared about was that he finally took a full bite of food.

Of course, then they saw the loitering taxi and the chase was on.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock Holmes was missing something. What's worse, he _knew_ he was missing something. This was all John's fault. It was probably that bite of food slowing him down. That, or the way his stomach kept rumbling and his eyes felt heavy now that the adrenalin of the chase had worn off. The transport had never been this demanding before. He supposed it must be the transition.

Well, at least John wasn't limping. It was nice to be right about something at least. Now they could go home and John's cane could be dramatically sent to him and…that was not the direction of home.

"No. We still need to eat."

"Angelo can send it on to the flat."

"Come on, Sherlock. You might not be hungry, but I am. I feel ready to fall over."

It wasn't a tactic that should have worked. Sherlock did not change his own behavior to accommodate others. Why should he? No one ever did for him. That didn't explain why he was allowing John to drag him back to the restaurant. Perhaps his limbs were a bit more tired than he had realized. He couldn't wait for the transition to be done with. Quite aside from the way it was messing with his case, everyone knew that alphas gained strength.

At least he got to add something to John's room in his mind palace. John had a great sense of direction and was able to retrace their steps, minus questionable trips across rooftops, without any difficulty. And Angelo presenting John with his cane in the doorway to the restaurant turned out to be just as satisfying as having it delivered to the house. The look on John's face when he saw his cane was brilliant.

Sitting in to have a meal was actually rather nice. He did keep an eye out for more taxis or strange cars, but none came. John had a pleasant look of satisfaction as he watched Sherlock eat. Or perhaps he was enjoying his own food. Sherlock had always been better at reading guilt and stress in faces than happiness. Perhaps John was enjoying being freed from the pain in his leg. Sherlock could see tension John had held sense Sherlock had met the man ease. It was a lovely feeling to know that he was the cause.

Of course, Sherlock should be feeling disappointed. He should have been feeling antsy for the case. His thoughts should have been racing in twenty directions. Never in his life had Sherlock paused in the middle of doing something to sit down and have a relaxing meal. It was strangely not unpleasant. He felt…content. Sleepy even. Well, he supposed that was the transport making demands in favor of the transition.

The warm glow in his chest continued as they went on their way, John carrying his cane over his shoulder as he stepped confidently along. That warm glow lasted until they actually arrived at 221b Baker Street.

His home was being invaded! There were people, strangers and rivals, touching his things, disrupting his home, making everything wrong! And to top it all off, there was Lestrade, Lestrade who Sherlock associated with family in spite of himself, who was telling John how Sherlock used to do drugs.

They were ruining everything. John wasn't looking at him like he was brilliant anymore. He didn't even look disappointed. It was worse. He was looking at Sherlock like he was broken. Like Sherlock was broken and that had broken something inside John.

Under normal circumstances he'd argue with Lestrade. He'd remind everyone that he was clean, that he had been clean, that he doesn't even smoke. But even worse than people treating him like a junkie, people were _disrupting his home_. He _needed_ his home to be exactly as it was meant to be, needed it more than food and sleep, more than he needed to solve the case. It was his home, and he found himself wanting to growl and scream and make everyone except John go away.

"Nononononono!"

At least everyone stopped touching his things for the moment, even if it was just to stare at him.

"Out! Go out!" he shouted at them. Anderson was the first to recover.

"Why? Something to hide, Freak?"

And then John was there, shoving Anderson up against a wall. He wasn't growling this time. Growls were for warnings. This wasn't a warning. This was John getting between his mate and an alpha threat. This was John ready to kill, rip, destroy to get these people out of their domain. It was a testament to his great self-restraint that all John did was restrain him.

Two people looked ready to attack John, to defend Anderson, and no, Sherlock wasn't going to let anyone attack his John, to attack his home, he would…

"Back, now!" Lestrade barked, not to Sherlock or to John but to his own people. Sherlock didn't relax, but something deep inside felt soothed. Lestrade was helping, after all, to defend his home. Against the wall, Anderson's face was turning very red, his eyes wide and panicked. Sherlock wasn't sure he was breathing.

"John?" Lestrade said, his voice low and submissive. "Anderson is going to leave now, yeah? Just, let him go and he'll leave."

"You let him in," John answered, his voice low and dangerous. "You let him call Sherlock 'Freak'. You let them into our home."

"Yes, okay, yes, but I didn't know. I promise, I didn't know. We just wanted the evidence, for the investigation. That's it. We don't want to disrupt your nest."

Nest. It was a word thrown about in those same pamphlets that explained the entire business of the transition. Another aspect Sherlock had forgotten about, because it all sounded so silly. It was an instinct that heralded to less civilized times, when the transition was a time of vulnerability and the need to have a safe place for heats was paramount. The nest had to be secure. There was no need for that now. No one was going to break into their home in the middle of their heavy sleep, in the middle of first heat. It didn't stop the way his very soul felt violated to see all these people inside his space. It didn't let John loosen his hold on Anderson.

"Right," Lestrade said, sounding exhausted. "Everyone out. Out now!" Everyone who wasn't Sherlock, John, Anderson or Lestrade slowly walked out the door. Lestrade looked very tired.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, "Can you please ask John to let him go?"

Sherlock considered this. On the one hand, it was immensely satisfying to watch Anderson squirm. On the other hand, if John did let him go, then he'd be out of the flat. Also, Anderson looked about two seconds away from peeing on himself, and Sherlock really would rather he did anything like that outside his home.

"John," he said at last, "Let him go." John did, glaring aggressively and just waiting for Anderson to try something. The only thing Anderson tried to do was to learn how to fly as he made for the stairs.

The disappearance of everyone except his mate and family made Sherlock almost fall onto the sofa in relief. He was actually trembling, slightly. Stupid biology. His home, his domain, his nest still didn't feel secure, though. Too many things were in the wrong place. It felt like an itch he couldn't quite scratch, unpleasant and distracting. John dropped onto the sofa next to him. Lestrade sat more slowly in a chair.

"So…" he said after a moment. "Not just flatmates, then?"

"Not just, no." Sherlock snuggled up against John possessively. Lestrade turned his attention to the pink case, still sitting open on the table.

"Any chance you want to share what you learned with the class?" he asked.

"Any chance you found out who Rachel is?" Sherlock shot back.

"Yes actually. She was the victim's daughter, or would have been. She was never born. Victim had a miscarriage, several years ago."

"No. It can't be that. Rachel must mean something else."

As it turns out, wondering why a mother would still be upset about that was a bit not good. Of course, Sherlock turned out to be right. 'Rachel' wasn't a person, it was a password. The missing phone could be found. In their flat. What?

"Sherlock, your taxi's here." And then everything fell into place. Of course. He bounded down the stairs.

In the calm of the flat that followed, John and Lestrade looked at each other.

"Any chance that was a coincidence?" Lestrade asked. They looked at the phone location again. It was at their flat. It couldn't be in their flat. They had searched it, searched the case, searched everything. And now Sherlock had run off to some taxi he hadn't ordered…

John and Lestrade almost crashed into each other in their haste to get down the stairs. John won out, mostly by virtue of being smaller. By the time they got outside, the cab was gone, and so was Sherlock.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock wasn't risking his life when he picked up the pill. That wasn't the sort of thing one did just when one found one's soulmate. That wasn't the sort of thing anyone would do to their newly found soulmate, not even someone like Sherlock. But he wasn't risking his life, because he _knew_ it was the placebo. The burning need to prove it, to finish the game, to ride the high of a completed case that much longer before the inevitable drop, that was what drove him to choose. This wasn't going to leave John without his alpha; it was going to leave Jeff Hope without a trial. Hopefully there'd still be time, before the end, to learn the name of Hope's employer.

Then Lestrade burst through the door and Sherlock dropped the pill. Something went through Sherlock then, like a feeling of shock. Like he was being dragged back from a large precipice he hadn't even realized was there. It surely wasn't because he dropped the pill. It was probably the situation catching up to him. That and the transition. He should eat something. He should sleep. He should find John. He needed to finish the case.

Unfortunately for everyone, Lestrade's sudden entrance didn't actually save the day. Jeff Hope, a dying alpha, estranged from his wife and kids, who lured strangers into a trap with a fake gun at the behest of a benefactor, showed a sudden and surprising burst of strength and deadly intentions. He grabbed Sherlock from behind, his own pill scuttling across the floor, and procured, not a fake gun, but a very real knife.

"What happened to 'I'll go quietly'?" Sherlock asked, silently berating himself for being so slow. He had even noticed the concealed knife and he still hadn't realized Hope's intentions. Sherlock would forever blame the weakness and confusion caused by his transition for the fact that he didn't manage to evade him.

"Look, mister…" Lestrade began cautiously, carefully arranging his body language into a submissive position just like they taught at training. That was all he had time to attempt before there was an explosion of glass and Hope was crumbled on the floor, his knife lying mostly harmless but somewhat precariously on the nearby chair.

Shot, Sherlock's brain slowly supplied. He felt so slow that evening, like the entire world was stuck in syrup. It was Lestrade who ran to look through the window for the shooter, then moved to assist the most definitely dying serial killer.

"You alright?" he called up to Sherlock while making an effort to apply pressure. From the contortions Hope's face was making, he wasn't appreciating Lestrade's efforts.

"That's pointless," Sherlock pointed out. "He's going to die. We should be questioning him. You, tell me…I was right, wasn't I? I chose the right pill."

And then he found himself sitting down very suddenly on the ground. Jeff Hope did not answer Sherlock's question. Instead he decided to die. Lestrade finally gave up on him and tried to check on Sherlock instead without getting any of Hope's blood on him. Not that checking on Sherlock was necessary. He was fine, as he explained to Lestrade, and the reason he was sitting on the floor was because the floor was comfortable. Lestrade was not a very good conversationalist. He grumbled to himself about idiot detectives and their idiot soulmates who apparently STILL HAVE A FIREARM, and other things that didn't make much sense.

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked suddenly. If Lestrade was there, then shouldn't John be? He found himself missing the man. He had only known him a day and he was already missing him when he wasn't there. Well, he should be there. His mate had almost been killed after all.

"He'll be on his way to Antarctica if he knows what's good for him," Lestrade answered.

What kind of answer was that? Oh. He was slow that night. Lestrade had obviously tracked him down using the dead woman's phone. John had been with him. John wouldn't have let Lestrade go without him. There were two sides of the building; two choices, two men to explore. Obvious. John had gone into the opposite wing. The one where the shooter had been. The shooter who probably had military experience. Oh. He really was slow that night.

"It was in defense of a mate," he informed Lestrade. Just in case Lestrade had plans to arrest John.

"I'm not an idiot, Sherlock," Lestrade answered. Sherlock stared at him doubtfully. Then the back up and the paramedics arrived. The emergency response team was completely unreasonable about Sherlock's condition. Apparently, in their medical opinion, a man who was in the middle of transitioning from beta to, again in their medical opinion, either an alpha or omega, and who had been spending his time since meeting his soulmate running around London after a serial killer, and who had then been kidnapped ('Abducted, and technically I went with him willingly' 'Not helping your case, Sherlock') and then almost killed, and did see a man die in front of him…well, such a man needed medical intervention.

Sherlock did, grudgingly, accept the protein bar they pressed on him. He was less appreciative of the blanket.

"They'd be more convinced if you stopped shivering," Lestrade pointed out. "They think you might be in shock."

"I'm not in shock."

"Listen, kid, they really want to run a few tests, just to be…" Luckily, probably for all involved, Donovan came over to ask Lestrade a question and Sherlock managed to slip quietly away to where John, finally John, was standing just outside the police tape.

"John."

"Sherlock."

They stared at each other for a long moment.

"Protein snack?" Sherlock offered. John broke down in giggles and Sherlock found himself grinning. No wonder Sherlock had thought he'd never have a soulmate; how could he have ever predicted such an anomaly as John? John who killed for him, who praised him. John who was his to keep.

Then of course Sherlock's brother had to show up and kill the mood. Of course he would. Lestrade had probably called him before calling back-up.

"Sherlock," John hissed, shifting around so he was standing between Sherlock and his brother. "That's him. He's the one who abducted me. Should we get Lestrade?"

"By all means, do get my omega," Mycroft answered for him, sounding his usual smug self. "Sherlock, what did I tell you about getting into cars with criminals? Mummy will be very disappointed."

"Wait…mummy? Your omega? You…your…"

"My brother Mycroft," Sherlock said reluctantly, and then, with much less reluctance, "Mycroft, meet John Watson. My soulmate."

The look of utter shock on Mycroft's face was worth every moment that he knew was to come once their parents found out. Plus, Sherlock was able to use Mycroft's distraction to grab John's hand and drag him away.

"So, wait, he's your brother? Why is your brother abducting your friends? He wanted me to spy on you!"

"Yes, I know. He's annoying about that. He's convinced I'm too immature to live on my own."

Behind them, Mycroft and Lestrade watched them leave. Mycroft had managed to compose his expression, despite the fact that he was still reeling from this development.

"He has a soulmate," he found himself saying out loud. He hated saying the obvious out loud. Somehow, this situation warranted, as if it wouldn't take root in reality unless it was spoken.

"You see," Lestrade said, his voice fond, "All that worrying, all that scheming, and your brother, like always, finds his own path. Maybe it's time to let him?"

"He just went in a car with a serial killer. On purpose. Where was his soulmate then?"

"And he's fine. Because of his soulmate. You don't have to worry about everything anymore. Look at John as someone to…share the burden. You wanted a live in keeper, and you got that. And on Sherlock's terms, so he can't even hate you for it. Maybe it will bring you brothers closer now, having something in common."

"I'm not entirely sure Sherlock even knows what's coming, with the transition. With the sex. I suppose I should talk to him. About the change. What to expect."

"I don't know," Greg answered, "I think it might go better if I were the one to give him the talk."

"I think it might be more beneficial coming from another alpha."

"You think he's going to be an alpha?"

"You don't?"

Even from all the way down the street, the two in question heard Lestrade laughing. Not even knowing what that was about, it still set them off giggling again.

"It's the hormones," Sherlock said, after he had settled a bit. "They're making us…giddy."

"It's called surviving," John answered. "You should have seen us after a successful assignment. So, is this what you do then? Risk death to prove you're clever?"

"It wasn't a risk. I knew which pill was poisoned."

"Right. Sure. And that knife was just a rubber prop?"

"What did you do with the gun? I suppose I'll have to get Mycroft to get you a license. Damn. I hate owing him for anything."

"What exactly does your brother do? He isn't actually a master criminal, is he?"

"That'd be too exciting for him. He's the government."

"What…he works for the government."

"Well, that's what it says on paper."

"Sherlock Holmes, you get far too much enjoyment out of being mysterious."

And then Sherlock broke down in giggles again. "Did you see his face? He met you, he researched you, and he still didn't know you were mine."

John didn't giggle so much as smile softly, a fond look in his eyes. Then Sherlock stumbled, and John stumbled trying to catch him and only a wall stopped them both from tumbling to the ground. John managed to steady himself first, no pain in his leg or tremor in his hand as he hooked his arm around Sherlock's.

"Come on. Let's go home. We need food and we need sleep. You can take notes on how we're changing."

"How did you know I was taking notes?"

"I…just…I guess I know you. Come on. Even transport needs maintenance."

"Tedious," Sherlock answered, but he was grinning. Besides, he was feeling famished and bone tired. The case was solved and the new one, the life-long case of John Watson, had only just begun. "Let's go home."


	9. Chapter 9

Note: In case you are just reading this for the world building and awesome friendship, I feel I should warn you that there are scenes of a sexual nature in this bit. In case you have patiently been reading this in anticipation of sex, I feel I should inform you that patience is rewarded in this bit. Well, it isn't 'first heat' yet, but it isn't exactly hand holding either. Also, very brief mentions of assault, possibly of a sexual nature.

Sherlock's notes were not making sense. It probably came of getting too much sleep and eating twice his usual amount. That was John's fault. He was so distracting that Sherlock didn't notice how John kept slipping more food onto his plate (well, he did, he noticed everything, he just didn't always pay attention). Mrs. Hudson had decided to take matters into her own hands and had created a banquet with enough food for an army. And Sherlock ate half of it.

There was an awkward bit afterwards, when neither of them quite wanted to presume, until Sherlock became exasperated with emotions and sentiment and tiptoeing and dragged John into his bedroom.

"The bed's big enough for two. You can sleep here. Don't disturb my sock index."

Then Sherlock stripped and got a tailor's measuring tape to take more accurate notes on his changing body. John stared for a long moment at Sherlock's completely nude form, first with surprise and then with appreciation and then surprise again because, after all, Sherlock was a guy and that had never been John's thing. Then John shrugged, and at Sherlock's impatient huff, stripped down himself.

It turned out, John did not know what size he was to begin with or if he had noticed any minimal changes and ('I can take my own measurements, thank you!') he could speak in surprisingly high voice. So Sherlock handed over the measuring tape, even though he wasn't quite done with it. That was fine by Sherlock. He was much more fascinated by inspecting John's scar. He spent a good fifteen minutes going over it (both sides) with his magnifying glass before he noticed that John was skewing the results of his self-measurements.

"I can't have one record of an aroused penis and one of a flaccid penis! They have to share the same variables!"

"Well then stop describing my scar to me in your voice of sex, you wanker!" Luckily, John had a solution, and it was even better than Sherlock's first idea: Sherlock could have two measurements for each of them in their aroused and unaroused states.

John had the best ideas. He even offered to help Sherlock in his own measurements. It was while Sherlock was considering the pros and cons of this offer that John went over all awkward again.

"Er…have you ever…I mean, I know you must have wanked, everyone does that, but with another…human?"

"Not true. Not 'everyone' does do that. There are those who have no sex drive, those who have a very low sex drive, and those who choose to abstain from self-pleasure. You're a doctor; shouldn't you know this?"

"Alright, fine. Obviously not 'everyone' wanks, but you aren't acting like this is your first erection and my question stands. Have you ever had sex? Or even fooled around? With another person?"

"…does punching someone who tried to stick their hand down my pants count?"

"…"

"Though I'm not entirely sure whether he was actually trying to touch my penis or whether he was trying to steal my…money. That I hid in my pants. That time when I was a bit living in an abandoned building."

"You hid your drugs in your pants?"

"I said money, John."

"You hesitated."

"Hey, we can take your flaccid measurements now. But I thought you wanted to ejaculate, not just go all limp on your own."

"Right. Sorry. That's a thing that happens when one's soulmate starts talking about being assaulted while living in a drug den."

"It wasn't a drug den. And I wasn't assaulted. Anyway, I broke his nose. And wrist. And one of his fingers. So what about you? Do you have a lot of experience?"

"In breaking fingers?"

"…In sex, John."

"Oh right. Yeah. With women. A bit."

"Good. Then you can help me take my aroused measurements."

Taking measurements proved to be a lot more fun with a partner. He discovered the size of John's feet, the space between his nipples, the size of the mole on his left buttocks, the length of his penis (slightly shorter than Sherlock's own). He also discovered that John had a greater circumference than him. He wondered if that would change when John finished transitioning into an omega. Usually it was an omega's balls that suffered the most shrinkage after the change. Of course, whether John's penis changed size or not, Sherlock knew his own was bound to grow, so as to accommodate the newly forming knot. In any case, Sherlock had careful measurements of everything.

In the end, Sherlock got all the measurements and notes he desired and discovered that coming by John's hand was rather more interesting than doing it on his own. Watching John do the same was fascinating. Sherlock had a great deal of experience in taking people apart. It was a completely new experience to do it using pleasure.

They fell asleep on Sherlock's bed, his somewhat dirtied top sheet thrown on the floor. Instead, they wrapped up in each other.

Sherlock slept for a good twelve hours. He never did that. He never ate that much, and he never slept that long. He still didn't feel rested either. He supposed it was because he overslept. He had read about how sleeping too much can, ironically, make you sleepy. John was still sleeping too. He looked like he needed it, though. Nightmares, Sherlock remembered. One of those deductions he had actually managed to keep to himself.

Sherlock wondered, idly, as he picked up the measuring tape, whether he would no longer be considered a virgin by society's standards. Then he looked at his notes. And they were wrong.

It wasn't that he hadn't grown in any visible fashion in the areas where he expected there to be some growth. After all, transition could take up to a week. It was that there was a minute amount of shrinkage in areas where he wouldn't expect an alpha to shrink. Well, it was minute. He had never made a great study of his own balls before; perhaps minute changes were normal.

He meant to take John's measurements to compare, but somehow the decision, upon seeing the bed, to lie down, just for a moment, ended in him sleeping for a full six hours more.

When he awoke the second time, John was up, still completely naked, and hauling a heavily laden tray into the bedroom. Sherlock blinked at him. Then the smell of food hit him and suddenly he felt absolutely ravenous. About half way through the meal Sherlock suddenly remembered the manners his parents had mostly succeeded in imparting in him.

"Thank you."

John's smile was entirely fond when he said, "You're welcome."

"Am I no longer a virgin?"

Apparently John's parents' lessons in manners did not extend to not choking and spitting your juice back into your cup. After the meal, John sat by Sherlock on the bed.

"Sherlock… did you like what we did, last night? Do you enjoy…I mean, I did, it was brilliant, but it's okay if you aren't ready, or you didn't like it. I'm not running away just because you're asexual, or just need time…"

"We don't have time. First heat is in a few days." John's face sort of crumbled a bit, and belatedly Sherlock thought to add, "And yes, I did enjoy last night. It was like…discovering a locked room murder that I get to solve, except it belongs only to me and the case can go on forever. I mean, normally if a case goes on forever, I get frustrated, but this…it isn't the sort of thing I want to end. I used to laugh at people who went all sentimental about their soulmate. How 'he was made for me! And I for him!' It sounded so…unlikely. And then you came. And that's exactly what you are. Unlikely."

"Me? I'm normal. You, you're the one who's…"

"Freakish."

"No. Brilliant. Otherworldly. Original."

"Scientifically speaking, that's what 'freakish' means."

"Don't care. You're not freakish. You're…mine."

"Yes."

Then Sherlock got his measurements of John. Things still weren't adding up. John's balls hadn't changed size in the slightest. His penis, on the other hand…

"It's longer. It's…this doesn't make any sense. Omegas don't grow. All the energy their body takes in goes into altering internal organs and arranging the vaginal opening."

"I guess I'm the alpha," John answered. "Can you tell in my scent?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John." And then. "You just smell like you."

"What's ridiculous? Sherlock? Are you…upset about being an omega?"

"It isn't…it isn't prejudice. Lestrade's an omega and he's…well, he makes a better brother than Mycroft. It's just…I'm not…it makes no sense. You're a doctor. Have you ever known transitions to go wrong like this?"

John looked entirely too gentle as he put his hand over Sherlock's. See, Sherlock wanted to shout, everything about John screamed 'omega'. He was gentle. He was kind. He was the one bringing food to Sherlock, and…and…defending his mate from serial killers, and…and from alphas like Anderson, and…Sherlock felt like the entire world had gone askew and was spinning away uncontrollably. He couldn't have felt odder if someone had told him the sun didn't orbit the earth.

"It doesn't really work like that," John told him. "It isn't about who is the most macho, or the strongest. I know how films like to show it, but we know better, don't we? Doctors and detectives. Do you know, there's an older version of that old nursery rhyme?"

Sherlock whispered the rhyme out loud, the words too familiar, learned too young to ever be deleted.

"_Alphas protect and lead the rest,  
>omegas nurture and gather the nest,<br>betas balance and do their best"_

John nodded.

"I used to like seeking out the older version of kid's rhymes and stories. I read all the original Grimm stories, the ones that end in blood and death. I used to go around happily singing '_Ring around the Rosie_' just because I thought it was about the Black Death."

"It isn't."

"Well, I know that _now_. Anyway, do you know how that poem used to go?

_Alphas protect and provide for the nest,  
>omegas nurture and guard the nest,<br>betas balance and build the nest_."

Sherlock thinks about this.

"I'm not a nurturer, John. I can't be."

"You are a guardian. One of the best I've ever met. Do you know what sorts of jobs omegas do in the army?"

"Cooking? Looking after the wounded alphas?" He had seen the occasional war film, after all. He had seen the recruiting ads the army liked to show. It often had a strong alpha soldier defending a poor omega in distress.

"Peace negotiations. Bomb defusing. Defusing in general. They don't advertise it, because the public outcry would be enormous, but the army loves omegas. They make some of the best soldiers."

"You're a good soldier."

"I was."

"We might not have measured accurately, last night. We did get a bit…distracted."

John groaned, flopping back on the bed. Then he sat up and started throwing on his clothes.

"John? Where are you going? I…you can be the alpha if you want. I mean, you aren't, but for now, until the changes take…why are you leaving?"

"I'm not leaving you," John answered, and Sherlock would never admit to the amount of relief those words generated. "I'm going downstairs. With you. By now, our scents are changed enough. We can't properly smell ourselves, but others will be able to. We are going to have Mrs. Hudson smell us and she will tell us once and for all who is the alpha and who is the omega."

"Oh."

"So put some clothes on."

Sherlock wrapped himself in a sheet. John sighed, then insisted that if he was going to do that, he could at least choose a clean sheet and not the one they had gotten dirty the night before. Sherlock considered this. He grabbed a clean sheet.

Mrs. Hudson seemed rather surprised to see them.

"Are you hungry again, dears? I just brought you up…"

"No, though that was lovely, thank you Mrs. Hudson. (_Elbow. 'Yes, thank you_.') No, it was…we were…we can't properly smell ourselves but it's been long enough…can you tell…"

"We want to know which of us is the alpha and which is the omega."

"Oh. Of course! Yes…yes, your scents have changed. How interesting. I used to wonder, back when I was a girl, you know, when I thought I might meet my own soulmate, I always wondered what I'd be. You know how children dream. I…"

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"Now really, Sherlock. Oh, alright. You're an omega, and John is an alpha. Isn't it wonderful?"

For the first few minutes of Sherlock staring off into space and not responding, John and Mrs. Hudson chatted amicably. A few minutes later, a beginning to grow concerned John carefully led a very pliant Sherlock back up the stairs.

"I'm sure he's fine…just, the transition you know, takes a lot out of you, we probably need more sleep, really…thanks for the food, it was lovely. No, we don't need more; we still have a bit left, actually."

John managed to get Sherlock all the way up the stairs and sitting on the bed, and Sherlock still didn't say anything or even properly look at John.

"Sherlock? Seriously, if you don't answer me in the next five minutes, I'm calling an ambulance."

It was four minutes before Sherlock suddenly turned his head and looked directly at John.

"I'm an omega."

John let out a brief sigh of relief, then nodded. He watched Sherlock carefully for signs of distress.

"You're an alpha."

"Yes. Sherlock, are you alright? Do you need something? Do you want me to…er…call Lestrade? Your brother?"

"Why would I want you to do that?"

"I don't know. You just seem to have a bit of a shock. You scared me for a bit."

"I was just…I had to rearrange things. In my mind palace. A bit."

"I have no idea what that means."

"I think I want to take more measurements now."

"…I'll get undressed."


	10. Chapter 10

John didn't tell Sherlock, he was never going to tell Sherlock, but he had him pegged for an omega from the moment he met him. It was in the way he seemed to know, immediately, how to cure his limp. It was in the way he _didn't_ make concessions for John's injury. It was in the way Sherlock was so particular about how things were kept in his home. It was (and this was where John really wasn't going to say anything to Sherlock) in the way he needed looking after. Sherlock could get so lost in what he was doing he'd forget to eat, to sleep, that paper is flammable. He'd even forget John. An alpha wouldn't be able to forget about his omega. He couldn't.

Alphas protect. More specifically, alphas protect _omegas_. Omegas protect the rest. It's something people forget, or never seem to realize in the first place. It's the reason there should be more omegas in the military, in the police force, in guardian positions. People mistake a word like 'nurturing' with 'something to do with the nursery'. Something child-like and fragile. Toddler minders aren't toddlers themselves. People forget how dangerous mothers can be. Omegas protect the nest, and alphas protect omegas.

So John will never tell Sherlock, but he knew from the start that Sherlock was an omega. His omega. Because from the start he could never forget Sherlock.

He didn't resent being forgotten. For one, despite the bond, they were near strangers. For another, omegas didn't need to look after alphas; alphas looked after omegas. (How he might have felt if it turned out Sherlock was the alpha after all is irrelevant; John was right). Omegas nurture alphas; they don't provide for them. No, there had never been any doubt in John's mind. It was the fact that he himself was alpha material that he had always doubted.

He was nothing like his sister. He didn't want to be like his sister. His sister took to being an alpha by challenging the entire world for dominance. She went looking for fights, not necessarily physical, but fights nonetheless. And woe befall anyone who happened to glance at Clara. Clara was _her_ omega, and she made sure everyone knew it.

John couldn't imagine treating Sherlock the same way. Harry hadn't even wanted Clara to have a job. John often thought it was the stress from that constant need to assert her dominance that re-enforced the alcoholism. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Either way, she lost her job and Clara found one. Harry absolutely hated that. _She_ was meant to be the provider. She resented Clara's success.

John couldn't resent Sherlock, not for something like that. He'd gladly trail in his shadow if it meant he could watch him shine. Of course he knew, logically, that not every alpha was like Harry. Not every alpha was like his father. Not every alpha out there was aggressive and belligerent and possessive. It didn't stop the way he felt a bit ill at the thought of being Sherlock's alpha. He couldn't help but imagine him being in the hands of someone controlling, like Harry, or dangerously violent, like his dad had been. Except Sherlock wasn't in the hands of anyone like that. He was in John's hands. The thought was at once extraordinary and terrifying.

John actually stayed awake, even after Sherlock fell back asleep. In the time to come, he'd learn how unusual that was, but at the moment he simply enjoyed staring at his sleeping omega. And he didn't sleep. Most of the changes happened when they slept. What if he woke up changed? Not just physically; of course he'd change physically. What if he changed mentally? What if he turned into the very thing he hated most?

He knew his thoughts were irrational. Studies showed that personalities didn't change; they merely became reinforced. Sherlock, for instance, would still be an impossible genius lacking social tact who loved investigating murders. He'd simply be one with the ability to become pregnant, a heightened sense of smell, and instincts towards nesting. Harry had always been aggressive. She had always protected anything she considered hers viciously, whether that was a doll or a favored jumper or her baby brother. And she had taken her first sip of alcohol when she was twelve. All becoming an alpha had done was give her a reason to indulge in her greatest character flaws.

John still couldn't make himself close his eyes.

In the end, it was only the fact that the transition was literally sapping all his strength that he was able to sleep. He didn't let go so much as slip and fall into slumber, and he slept like the dead four twelve hours.

Sherlock woke up first. He woke up and he was hungry and tired and his stomach was cramping painfully and he was annoyed to realize he was actually disappointed to find John asleep and not bringing him food like the last time. He didn't need John to do things for him. He just…didn't want to do it himself.

Transitioning was not just life changing, it was painful and boring and tedious, and why wasn't John waking up? Somehow, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to 'accidentally' nudge John awake, either. John looked tired. Sherlock didn't even know that was possible when a person was still asleep. John looked tired and his face was a bit tight, as though he were in pain.

He probably would be sore when he did wake up. Alpha's muscles changed during transition, not growing but strengthening, tightening. It had always been a source of annoyance on Sherlock's part that someone like Anderson, like Mycroft, like any alpha, whether lazy or weedy or fat, was still stronger than Sherlock. At least, stronger than he could hope to be without a lot of body building effort on his part.

Omegas don't lose muscle strength, no matter what bad romance novels suggested. They just don't gain any. On the other hand, his reproductive system was getting a major overhaul, and doing it very quickly. He was probably lucky to only be getting cramps.

It didn't feel like luck, though. He felt miserable and tired and starving and he didn't want to do more measurements and he didn't want to get out of bed and why was John still sleeping?

In the end, he discovered his need for the toilet outweighed his need to mope in a miserable heap huddled against his soulmate. And of course once he was up, it occurred to him that perhaps this time he could surprise John by bringing the food in to him. Then he thought about those silly omegas on television and in films who did all the cooking and cleaning and smiled a lot and didn't seem able to do anything useful. Perhaps he wouldn't get the food.

Then he thought about John, and how tired and stretched he looked, even asleep. He stepped silently into the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson had been by because their table was absolutely laden with pastries and fruit and the like. More were in the fridge, all with little notes explaining exactly how to heat things up or to keep them cold or how to mix things together.

Well, cooking was just basic chemistry, right? Besides, he had been feeding himself, successfully no matter what Mycroft had to say on the matter, for years. He didn't need Mrs. Hudson's notes. The one explaining how to make toast was just insulting.

John got another half hour of sleep before the explosion and resulting fire alarm woke him up.

Really, the fire truck showing up was a bit overkill. Apparently Mycroft had had the smoke detector set up to call them automatically. Never mind the amount of times Sherlock tended to set smoke detectors off for perfectly innocent reasons. It was definitely overkill for both Lestrade and Mycroft to show up in various states of panic.

"I thought we told you, you aren't allowed in the kitchen!" Lestrade's statement was both unfair and untrue. Okay, he had been told, on occasion, that he was a hazard in the kitchen, but that was usually from his experiments, not his cooking. And this time wasn't anything to do with lack of skill.

"It's not my fault I fell back asleep while the eggs were boiling. Watching water boil is soothing." Although, now that his heart wasn't trying to beat out of his chest thanks to his rude awakening, Sherlock was quite interested in how the eggs exploded. John's reaction was also fascinating, but not the sort of thing Sherlock wanted to replicate. Panicking a returned soldier into thinking they were under attack was unduly cruel, even for Sherlock. Also painful, when said soldier decided the best course of action was to tackle his mate to the ground and cover him with his own body. Even now, John was firmly wrapped around Sherlock's torso, though they had at least moved from the floor to the sofa.

"I already boiled the eggs," Mrs. Hudson informed him. "I said so in my note." Sherlock's first thought should probably not have been to wonder if using fresh eggs versus already boiled eggs made a difference in how quickly or drastically they exploded. Mrs. Hudson made a few more concerned noises before saying, "I'll just find some air freshener. Maybe it will do something about the burnt egg smell."

Mycroft was rather harder to get rid of.

"Would you like someone to fetch you some clothing, until we've taken care of this little incident?" Sherlock's answer was to glare at his brother. There was no need for all these people to be in their flat. At least the firefighters had been sent away fairly quickly. Family inside his dwelling was bad enough.

John's answer involved a gesture that made Lestrade snort and Mycroft frown at his crudity. Sherlock was so happy John was his. Even if Sherlock was a horrible omega for John who couldn't even fix his mate breakfast without ruining it.

Damn his uncontrollable hormones running rampant. There was no way Sherlock was about to burst into sobs in front of his brother. Or anyone else for that matter.

Burying his face into John's shoulder was the perfect solution. That way, no one could see him if his emotions suddenly got the better of him, and perhaps they would all finally take the hint and leave. Plus, John was surprisingly comfortable.

"Right," Lestrade said, after a long moment of silence. "It looks like everything is under control here, so we should probably be leaving. Sherlock, call if you need anything. Even if it's information or…well, anything. Come on Mycroft."

There was a long moment of silence, and then a very rarely heard yelp of surprise as Mycroft was pulled backwards towards the door. From the hallway, they heard 'He really is an omega' and 'I told you'.

There was a brief silence, then footsteps coming up the stairs again. This was soon followed by the spray from a can of air freshener. Sherlock was not convinced that the smell of 'summer breeze' was any better than burnt eggs, but Mrs. Hudson seemed content.

Finally, they were alone.

"Well…that was interesting," John said at long last. "Are you…"

It was only after Sherlock's lips had found John's that Sherlock quite realized what he was doing. He could feel John smiling, his mouth warm and soft, his cheeks slightly scratchy, his teeth a strange contrast to the softness which somehow enhanced the entire experience. This was new. Why hadn't he tried to taste John before? This was like sharing breath, sharing life.

He wondered what the rest of John tasted like.

Then, John's stomach rumbled, and he could feel it beneath him. He could feel it when John giggled into his mouth and they broke apart but that was okay because they were still skin to skin and Sherlock found himself laughing, perhaps for no reason at all.

They ate in the spare bedroom in an attempt to escape the stench of burnt eggs mixed with summer breeze. The bed in there was really too small for two grown men but they made do anyway by curling around each other.

They regretted it later when they woke up sore and still tired and very overheated. John's muscles were sore and Sherlock's newly forming organs were giving him cramps, and all Sherlock's notes were downstairs.

They went back down and spent the next two days alternately eating, sleeping, and exploring each other's bodies. Then, one afternoon they woke up feeling achy and strange but no longer bone tired.

"You think the transition is complete?" John asked, studying himself in the mirror.

"I think…I feel different," Sherlock answered, inspecting himself and finding…oh. That was very different. "John?" Sherlock didn't know how he felt about having a new opening, about what was to come. He felt strange. Apprehensive, nervous, fascinated, expectant. It was rather like standing on a precipice and not knowing what will happen when he steps off, except that he was going to fall. He was fully omega now. And soon…

"I suppose we better eat something," John said, smiling at him gently, seeming to understand. "I hear it takes a lot out of you. First heat."


	11. Chapter 11

_Note to anyone who personally knows me: you are not allowed to read this next bit. Feel free to imagine it's full of chaste cuddles and kisses._

_To everyone else: First Heat at last. Warning for the non-con inherent in this universe, but not specifically in this chapter._

It didn't hit directly. Sherlock had plenty of time to take measurements and to eat and to brood as the Heat slowly crept upon him, like the tide coming for a sandcastle. John had time to quietly send out a few texts warning people to stay away. Because entering the domain of a transitioning pair might be considered a faux pas. Entering the domain during a heat was considered at best criminal and at worst suicidal. Alphas protect.

"Are you comfortable?" John asked after that was done, sitting gingerly on the bed.

"Your cock, which has grown to almost double a beta's size, is about to be shoved into a hole that didn't exist yesterday inside my body. And apparently I'm going to be begging you for it. Why shouldn't I be comfortable?"

John looked so distressed at these words that Sherlock almost regretted them. Almost. He felt he had a right to feeling a bit petulant about the whole issue. It wasn't even the impending sex that bothered him. John might have been an intimidating size but his own body was designed to handle it. Logically, he knew that. And his explorations of John's body had been enjoyable, so he had no reason to believe penetrative sex wouldn't be.

It was the 'begging for it' part that he dreaded. His mind so taken over with lust that he was reduced to the idiocy of the masses. He wanted his first time to be a time of exploration, of discovery. Would he even remember the details, the sensations afterwards, or would it all be one big blur of desire and pleasure?

John's face matched Sherlock's for abject misery. Not that Sherlock cared. He knew it wasn't fair, but he couldn't help but feel a bit cheated that John got to be the alpha. John was now stronger than Sherlock. John wasn't the one who was about to be entered in the deepest manner imaginable. John could, once the heat had sufficiently addled his senses, hold Sherlock down and plow into him and there was nothing Sherlock would be able to do to stop him. Which didn't seem to stop John, at this moment, from looking close to crying.

"We don't have to…I mean it's harder but…there are, er, toys we can use…"

"First heat completes the bonding. We aren't supposed to use toys."

"I'm not going to rape you, Sherlock."

And Sherlock knew that. He knew that about John. But everyone said that heat drove alphas and omegas mad with lust. Alphas were known to be helpless in the face of any omega in heat, their own or someone else's. Rape charges were very rarely prosecuted because the alpha wasn't considered to be mentally sound at the time. On the other hand, assault and murder chargers also were only rarely brought up against any alphas defending their omegas.

"It won't be rape, though," Sherlock pointed out. "I'll be begging for it. You'll be out of your mind with need. We won't be able to help ourselves. And we're supposed to have sex. It finishes the bonding. It's unhealthy, otherwise."

"I don't care. I won't rape you. If you tell me, right now, you don't want to do it, then we won't. I don't care how much you beg later. I don't care how hard I get. Tell me now, while we're both clear minded, and we won't have sex. There are treatments we can do instead, to finish the bond. I'm a doctor. If I have to, I'll knock myself out. I'll take something that won't let me get hard."

"You will not! You know what happens when you use drugs to interfere with first heat!"

"I don't care. I'm not hurting you."

The two men stared at each other. Sherlock felt something well up inside, something suspiciously like a sob that he wasn't about to let out. Alphas weren't supposed to act like John.

Omegas weren't supposed to act like Sherlock. Perhaps it was time to let go of 'supposed to'. They were soulmates, compatible in every way imaginable. Did it matter if it was biology or a higher power, chance or fate? They didn't have to do anything. Sherlock didn't have to have sex with John.

"I want to."

"What?"

"I want to have sex. With you. During first heat, I mean. I want…I…can we record it?"

John was staring at him. He wasn't grinning with excitement or sighing with relief that Sherlock had given in. He was studying him. Probably trying to find the truth of Sherlock's words in his expression. Of course. He wanted to be sure. Perhaps Sherlock should offer a better explanation.

"It isn't the sex part that I didn't want. I'm not scared. I just…I don't want to lose my mind to it. I don't want to lose myself to…to lust. But if I record it, I can remember, I can…I can know."

John looked a bit bemused now.

"You know, you are probably one of the only people to ever propose recording first heat and not intend that video to be used as porn."

"I always said I was singular."

Now John was smiling, not with excitement and lust, but with fondness. And then a new thought occurred to Sherlock.

"Do you want to have sex with me? I won't rape you, either."

John's smile didn't break. If anything it grew bigger.

"Yes I want to have sex with you. And yes you can record it. Yes."

After that, Sherlock found himself feeling restless. He remade the bed with new sheets, condescended to eating some of the banquet John insisted on preparing, arranged pillows. He wondered what was taking his biology so long. Now that he had accepted it was going to happen, it wanted it to happen already.

His body felt strange. Antsy, and full of useless energy with nowhere for that energy to go. His skin felt rough and sensitive and it was just as well they were wandering around naked because he didn't think he could stand clothes.

And then he felt…strange. Warm. Was that heat? They did call it 'heat' after all. Warm and alive and somehow weak in the same moment.

"John?"

John didn't answer, just reached out gently and led Sherlock towards the bed. His nostrils flared and his eyes grew dark and…oh. Sherlock could feel himself growing wet, a very strange, very new sensation between in legs. He felt…empty.

John inhaled deeply and made a noise, something like a growl. Sherlock waited, feeling strangely curious to see what an alpha growing mad with lust might do. Would he throw him down on the bed, climb over him, claim him?

John did none of these things. There was no throwing, no show of strength and dominance. John gently pulled and Sherlock allowed himself to follow.

"You're almost ready," John whispered, "I can smell you. You smell…perfect. Come, lie with me. Please."

According to popular literature, according to the pamphlets, according to everything Sherlock knew to be true about alphas and omegas, they should be descending into a mindless, primal session of need and sex.

But Sherlock didn't feel mindless. He felt…single minded. He never felt single minded. He always had at least five separate ideas in his head at all times, more if he were working. His single mind was completely occupied with John.

This wasn't the haze he feared, the blur. This wasn't him giving and John taking. This was focus, complete focus, on a single moment, a single person. Was this what he had feared? This was brilliant.

He had enjoyed exploring John's body before, his reactions, and now there was completely new data pouring in, data untainted by distraction or division of attention. John's body felt like a tight coil beneath his hands, full of pent up energy, ready to explode. His eyes were black with lust, lit up with wonder, with…love? With something precious and fragile.

John's penis was already hard, huge and purple. A shudder went through his entire body when Sherlock reached out to touch it.

"John?" Sherlock whispered, though he wasn't completely sure what he was asking. Sherlock was lying back on the bed, John partly next to him, partly above him, propped up on one arm, one hand reaching lightly to stroke Sherlock's belly.

Somehow that light touch felt like fire against his skin. Not painful but burning. Heat. There was heat between his legs, in that new place, the place made just for John. It felt so empty, clinching at nothing, and he could feel something dripping out. It was a very odd sensation.

And John still didn't take.

"Please," John whimpered instead, "Please. May I, Please, Sherlock, please."

Sherlock had never in his life seen such a show of raw strength. The full strength of an alpha, and it wasn't being used to restrain, to conquer, but to hold himself back. Sherlock had never realized the power in resistance. John looked like he was in pain with his need, actual pain. His hips kept thrusting at the air and he was almost crying, whimpering, begging. A pearl of liquid dripped from his hot, needy shaft and landed on Sherlock's thigh. Still he didn't make any move to thrust into him.

All that power, all that strength, and John had given it all to Sherlock.

"Please, I need, I need," John was outright sobbing now, his face twisted in actual agony, and it shouldn't have felt as delicious to Sherlock as it did. It wasn't that he wanted John to be in pain, but the control, the fact that John was in agony for Sherlock, that gift was not one to be taken lightly.

And Sherlock needed right back. He wanted to feel John inside him, all the way, to burn into his very core. He wanted to record every new sensation inside his mind palace. He wanted to feel everything. He didn't release John though. Instead, he pushed him back onto the pillows, and climbed over him.

He moved instinctively until he felt the tip of John's penis brushing against his hole. Oh. That felt…new. Slowly, carefully, he breached himself on the tip of John's cock. John shuddered with something like relief, his hands grasping convulsively, one at the sheets, one at Sherlock's hip. He didn't pull him down, though, or hold him up. He just held on, still holding back, shaking with the effort to not thrust.

"You'd stop for me, wouldn't you," Sherlock whispered in wonder. "Even now. If I said no, you'd stop. It'd hurt but you'd stop."

"Yes. Please. Please, Sherlock, please, let me, I need…please."

Sherlock slid down, slowly, marveling at the sensation of being filled, listening to John's litany of '_thank you thank you please thank you_'. John filled him. And filled. He never thought it would go so deep, feel so…intimate. This was a space created just for John, and now John was filling it, completely, buried into his very soul.

It felt hot, literally hot, inside of him, and he could feel it throbbing. He was feeling John's heartbeat, he realized, and there was something remarkable about feeling it from the inside, as though they were sharing his heart together.

"Can you feel my heartbeat?" he asked, curious. "What do I feel like, inside?"

"Glorious," John murmured back, his voice thick with need but also awe, wonder. And then, "Yes, I feel your heartbeat. I feel…I feel you. Around me. Slick for me. Hot. You're tight, so tight, like you were made for me."

"Yes," Sherlock answered. He held himself there for a long moment. He could still feel John quivering with pent up need, desire, and he wanted John to move, wanted to let him take, wanted to give his gift back again and just take everything. He still didn't move, didn't ask John to move, reveling for the moment in the denial, in the very sweetness of the pending precipice to come. And then…

"Take me, John, now."

And with a sob, part relief part joy, John did.

He moved beneath him, holding Sherlock so carefully, his movements so gentle it was almost painful because Sherlock needed, just as much as John he needed. He wasn't entirely sure what he needed just that being filled wasn't enough.

"Please, John, I don't know…I think I need it harder. Please?"

He had always feared the begging. But this…this wasn't him giving in, it was him allowing, him giving, yes, but not giving in to lust. This wasn't his mind overcome by his body; this was his mind allowing his body to be fulfilled.

John turned them over, laying Sherlock against the pillows, and they looked at each other, not lost in each other but found, and he gave Sherlock exactly what he needed in strong, hard thrusts. His new passage was sensitive and it hurt, but not the kind of pain that made Sherlock pull away because it also felt perfect. Pleasure welled up inside him and it felt right.

Then John reached down and grasped Sherlock's cock and it felt more than right. He hadn't even noticed he was hard, so concentrated as he was on the new sensations.

This was pleasure, being brought to completion from within and without.

He still didn't lose his mind to sensations. It wasn't a blur. He was able to categorize and concentrate and to reach out and touch and explore each new sensation, each new reaction from John, each new event.

Coming to the feel of John's hand, to John thrusting deep inside his body, was a completely new experience. The seed from his cock was minimal but the reaction inside his core was glorious and for one long moment every thought, every sensation, was narrowed down to the sharp point of a single act.

John groaned deeply, and Sherlock did that to him. He made John feel this pleasure, this need, this completion. And he felt when John came, deep inside him, placing a bit of John inside Sherlock's body where no one would ever be able to remove him again.

The sensation of the knot swelling at his entrance was not the painful joining Sherlock had feared. It felt odd, but right, and Sherlock felt another wave of pleasure sweep over him, making him gasp in surprise.

"Sherlock?" John asked, his face close enough to kiss, his arms holding tightly as they were knotted together. Sherlock wasn't sure if he could answer. His mind felt as full as his body, processing the new sensations. An entire new wing would be needed for his mind palace.

"Sherlock?" John was starting to sound concerned now. Perhaps Sherlock should make an effort.

"You are brilliant," he managed to get out, and John's arms tightened around him.

"I'm so glad I found you," John murmured into his ear. "I'm so glad you're mine."

And then they held each other in silence, and just were.

How could Sherlock have ever dreaded first heat? After all, he always knew he'd be sharing it with John.

Author's Note: And there's the sex scene finally done. Hope it satisfied. I admit my experience in writing sex scenes is a bit lacking. Also, note that I've now caught up to myself. Which means that while there will probably be at least one more chapter to this story, I still need to write that chapter so it might take more than a day for the next bit.


	12. Chapter 12

12

John and Sherlock joined together two more times before the waves of pleasure were followed by a deep sense of fulfillment. The burn of first heat ebbed and seemed to take Sherlock's muscles with it. It wasn't exhaustion, exactly, so much as the complete relaxation that comes after a workout well spent. He felt comfortable and warm. John was still inside him, his arms holding him close, his lips against Sherlock's throat, murmuring into his skin inaudible love notes like prayers.

Sherlock felt full, just on the edge of being too full. John felt so huge inside him and locked as they were together John's seed had filled him and filled him until it was almost more than he could take. Almost. Sherlock had never felt so completely sated in his life.

Sherlock didn't know how long they lay like that (though his camera later told him it was six hours and forty-seven minutes). All he knew was that he was comfortable and full and sated, and then he apparently fell asleep because the next thing he knew was that he was too crowded and sweaty and John was a dead weight crushing his arm and Sherlock needed to pee.

John had apparently had enough presence of mind to pull out before he fell asleep. In fact, according to the video recording, he'd had enough presence of mind to arrange Sherlock on the comforter which he'd pulled over the mess they'd made of the sheets and to clean some of the stickiness from between Sherlock's legs before he'd curled up with him. Sherlock, while remembering the sex perfectly, had no memory of any of this. Oddly enough, John would later say he didn't remember it either, despite not having the excuse of having fallen asleep.

In this first waking moment, not having had a chance to review the video yet, all Sherlock was aware of was that John was a hot weight at his side, and that Sherlock could still feel a phantom sensation deep in his core, and that his new muscles felt bruised and sore. It was the sort of soreness that felt oddly satisfactory despite the pain, like the soreness that comes after a hard work out. Or the pain that comes with peeling away a scab. It was pain, but pain that was earned, not inflicted.

Dragging himself away from John and out of the bed was a slow process. Earned or not, all his muscles felt achy and weak, and the wonderful soreness between his legs twinged with the threat of not so wonderful agony with every attempt at movement. He also found himself surprisingly reluctant to leave John's arms. Hot and uncomfortable though they had become, he found himself too cold, too alone outside of them. If he hadn't needed the toilet he probably would have just shifted into a more comfortable position. As it was, he slowly rolled off the bed and hobbled achingly across the room.

John was still asleep when he hobbled back, but only barely, his arms empty and grasping at where Sherlock had lain, a slight frown marring his face. Sherlock crawled slowly back onto the bed, and John's fingers curled over his hip. John's eyes blinked open and they looked at each other.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice so quiet it verged on being a whisper.

"John," Sherlock answered. He looked at him, felt the warmth of his hand on his hip, watched the way John's lips curled upwards slightly, his eyes crinkling with something like fondness. "We're fully bonded now," Sherlock said into the silence. "Can you feel it?"

"I feel complete," John answered. Sherlock considered this. That was probably a good way to describe what he was feeling himself. Then John was propping himself up, his eyes roaming over Sherlock's body with an intensity that seemed to warm something inside Sherlock that he hadn't even known was there. It wasn't sexual so much as intimate, his eyes concentrated entirely upon his omega.

"John?" Sherlock said, feeling open and exposed, but oddly safe. Not only did he not mind being open to John, he found he wanted to be. He wanted John to have everything that he was, and he wanted all of John in return.

"Are you sore anywhere? Do you have any pain?" John asked.

"A little," Sherlock found himself admitting. When John frowned in response, Sherlock was quick to add, "A little sore. But in a good way. It doesn't hurt."

"Can I…do you mind if I look…just…"

"You want to give me an exam, doctor?"

"If you don't mind."

In answer, Sherlock lay back and bent his knees, spreading his legs.

The obvious invitation was oddly nonsexual. John's cock didn't so much as twitch though his eyes did widen. Sherlock watched him, open and exposed as John slid his finger gently over his raw, sensitive skin and looked into his most intimate region. His touch was the touch of a healer, not a lover, though Sherlock found himself hoping John didn't treat all his patients with quite the same level of reverence that John was giving him.

"How do I look?" Sherlock asked, enjoying the intensity in John's expression as he examined him.

"Beautiful," John answered promptly, and Sherlock was slightly horrified to feel himself start to blush. Then John leaned back to turn his attention to Sherlock's face. "Though I'm guessing you're feeling sore. We probably shouldn't, er…you know, have penetrative sex for a few days…not that we have to then either…or any kind…" And now John was blushing instead and Sherlock found himself utterly captivated.

"I would like to be able to compare the experience outside of heat," Sherlock said. And then of course he remembered his camera, surprisingly still recording though the memory was almost completely used up, and the only reason the power wasn't long gone was because Sherlock had had the forethought to plug the camera in first.

"Are you sore?" Sherlock asked, after he had gotten all his notes out on John and John's changes.

"Not as much as you are, I'd imagine," John answered, his smile fond as he lounged naked on the bed. "I don't think I'd go for sex in the next few days even if you had been up for it. And my muscles are still settling. I should probably do stretches." He stayed sprawled across the bed and made no move to do anything of the kind.

After a bit, when Sherlock had finally trailed off from his steady stream of observations and questions, John finally pulled himself up.

"Why don't you have a soak and I'll see about some food," he suggested to Sherlock.

"I think you could use some hot water yourself," Sherlock pointed out.

As it turned out, the bathtub was not made to hold two grown men. They tried it anyway after a brief argument about whether Sherlock should lie on top of John (John's idea, and obviously a horrible one; for one, Sherlock was taller than John) or whether they should try lying at opposite ends of the tub (Sherlock's idea, and the one that made the most sense). The resulting tangle of limbs had them both in a fit of giggles but they did manage to fit after all, with Sherlock's feet over John's shoulders and John's tucked about Sherlock's torso. It was just as well they weren't able to even attempt sex because erections at that point would only have exasperated the situation.

They soaked in the hot water until it grew too cold to be worth it and then they huddled beneath the shower spray and washed each other's hair. Sherlock discovered that John's hair was surprisingly soft and pleasant, despite the military cut, and John discovered that the noises Sherlock made when someone rubbed his scalp were very similar to the noises he made during sex.

Between the hot bath, the lovely hair wash, and the full body massage John gave Sherlock after they had toweled off, Sherlock decided he was never going to move again because John had melted him.

John, on the other hand, seemed to have been revived by the experience and left Sherlock draped across the bed to make noises in the kitchen. He came back wearing nothing but an apron and carrying a tray of food. Sherlock blinked at him.

"Why are you wearing an apron?" he asked.

"Because I've seen the results of naked cooking during my time as a med student, and I don't think either of us wants to end this day at A&E. Come on, sit up. I bring food."

"Can't sit up. Muscles no longer work. You broke me."

"I bring chocolate," John said, waving a biscuit under Sherlock's nose.

"Well, if you're going to feed me chocolate," Sherlock grumbled, and allowed John to pull him upright. He fully intended to eat all the biscuits and leave the rest, but the smell of food somehow hollowed out his stomach and left him ravenous.

John laughed when Sherlock dove into his meal. "Thank you, John," John said, his voice laughing rather than reproachful, "For making me this lovely meal. Why, you're welcome, Sherlock."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said dutifully through a mouthful of food, "for making me this lovely meal." And then something about the entire domestic situation made Sherlock pause. He really was grateful, but not for the meal. Or rather, it was for the meal, but more what it represented.

John was an alpha who cooked for his omega. Moreover, John was an alpha who wanted to cook for his omega. This was not the way society insisted it was supposed to be. Alphas provide for their omegas, and omegas take care of their alphas. Providing means making money to put food in the kitchen; it's the omega who gets the food to the table.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, this time without the mouthful of food and with much more sincerity. "Thank you for being my alpha who cooks."

"Thank you, Sherlock," John answered, his expression serious but his eyes smiling, "For being my omega, who solves crime. Who solves crime and saves me."

"You saved me," Sherlock pointed out, not entirely sure if he meant how John shot the cabbie or something else entirely. "Alphas protect."

"And omegas guard," John answered.

The newly bonded soulmates looked at each other.

Sherlock lasted another hour in the glow of their bond before the inactivity got to him. He sat in the living room with his laptop, organizing his research on cigar ash. He draped himself over the sofa with his feet over the arm rest and his head in John's lap. John was still smiling fondly, one hand running through Sherlock's hair and the other meticulously pecking at the keys to his own laptop that he had rested precariously on the other armrest. Sometimes Sherlock would mumble something out loud about his research. Sometimes John would ask something about the case he was typing up.

The television was silent. Neither man missed its company.

Author's Note: The end! Well, I may or may not write the sequel I have in mind. I mean, I never did get into the Yard's reaction to discovering Sherlock is an omega. And if anyone were to defy the odds of a heat that's generally considered to be infertile, surely it would be Sherlock! So who know what might happen next. But I am now calling this story 'complete'. If there is to be more, it won't be for some time.


End file.
